


Beautifully Broken

by FrankiesLilKilljoy



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Dark Past, F/M, Falling In Love, Hate to Love, Love, My Chemical Romance References, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 51,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankiesLilKilljoy/pseuds/FrankiesLilKilljoy
Summary: The past can haunt you, settling into your brain like a parasite. What do you do when the past crawls out of its hole, becoming your present, your everyday? Two old friends are about to find out.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Frank Iero/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	1. Dear Percocet

**Author's Note:**

> From me to you, hoping you'll be able to escape just for a little.  
> Each chapter title is a song I think corresponds with it.

_"So you recently worked with Claim of the Broken lead singer, Ashley Benson. She did vocals on a few songs off your recent album, right? How was that?"_

_I laugh, rubbing at tired eyes. This is_ the _question. Everyone is waiting for this answer. She's the next thing in rock and everyone wants to know just who she is. I guess I'm supposed to be the man with the answers, "Oh yeah. That was rad."_

_"Did you two know each other before the record?"_

_High school. Ripped up jeans and skater skirts. Cutting class to smoke behind the art room. Sitting up way too late exchanging music and comics. Teaching each other to play instruments. One basement band after the other. "Oh yeah. I've known Ashley since high school. She's still exactly the same. Um, I was out behind the art classroom and she's just standing out there over this big mirror with a hammer and safety goggles. She looks right at me and is like, '_ Do you want to break this mirror with me _?'. Naturally, I had to ask why. She looked me dead in the eyes and deadpans,_ 'For art _'_. _I"ve always been a bleed for your art type and thought that purposely giving herself seven years of bad luck was the most hardcore thing I'd ever heard. She's still one of the most hardcore people I know."_

_"So how did the collaboration come about? Did you two plan it?"_

_Images of Ashley jumping around in the recording booth, getting so into the songs that she loses touch with anyone or anything else for those few hours flash before my eyes. "I've been living between Jersey and California. I was out in California and needed a place to record this album and I knew she's got a place in her basement and so I reached out. Singing together just felt normal and kind of happened naturally. We've been in bands together before so we kind of know each other's music styles and for this record, they happened to play nicely together."_

_"Is she easy to work with or is she one of those rock stars that's just a total diva?"_

_I try to imagine Ashley going full out diva, coming up completely blank. She's too down to earth, too willing to talk things out, and have each side heard. Ashley really is the dream artist, a perfect combination of rebel and girl next door; hard-headed enough to push for her side, but understanding enough to know when to back down. "_

_"No. She's so good and so driven. She really helped push me to make the record everything it could be. We each listened to the other's suggestions and it really was a total collaboration the whole way through. We sat and built puzzles and drank coffee and smoked cigarettes and made a record. It was rad."_

_"Awesome man, pleasure to have you on as usual. You can find Frank's new alum out now."_

Her band name glares up at me from the lineup. Glowing fiery amber, burning those letters into my brain, stirring up emotions I was sure I'd put to rest. My fingers burn, begging me to cast away the paper, get rid of the nasty itch that's begun to creep through my body, digging its claws into me. Its been years, the two of us carefully dancing around run-ins and prying questions from fans and interviewers alike. My stomach rolls and I'm forced to swallow the uneasy feelings down. Suddenly, I get the urge to move, to dispel the anxious energy that's building; to get rid of the fingers that curl around my throat. We can't play these games on tour. There isn't enough room to continue our carefully choreographed routine. 

"Earth to Frank," a hand is waved in front of my face, sharp snapping dragging me out of the spiral of my thoughts. "See anybody good on there?" 

Tearing my eyes from the printed letters, I stare into Gerard's face. He's got an eyebrow raised, lips pursed together as his gaze shifts between the lineup and me, "Few bands we've been on tour with before. The Used is gonna be there so we'll get to avoid Bert for a few months. Fall Out Boy. Mikey will be happy to see Pete again. No one else we've played with before."

"Hey," Gerard snatches the lineup from my hands, eyes narrowing as he reads through the other bands. "Look, Ashley's band is going to be there!" He grins, tongue sticking out between his teeth. "That'll be so fun. I miss her."

I scowl. Of course he'd be excited. Gerard loves Ashley. Feeling increasingly helpless as Gerard hurtled towards rock bottom, I called Ashley. She knew how to handle addiction. She used her own experiences with depression and drug dependency to coach Gerard through his lowest moments and recovery. She became his rock, someone he could call any time of the day or night to talk to about anything. They've kept in touch, meeting up a few times a year to spend a weekend just hanging out and sharing new music. We've successfully protected him from our own bullshit, allowing Gerard to believe that Ashley and I are just too busy to put in the time needed to maintain a viable friendship.

"Did you say Ashley?" Mikey wheels himself out into the hall, spinning around in circles on his desk chair. "You know she called me like a month ago? She's planning on putting out new music. I wonder if she knew she'd be going then."

"Naw, she probably would've told you," Gerard pushes Mikey back into the sound booth, continuing their conversation as the door swings shut.

I slide down the wall, resting my chin on my knees. My insides continue to twist around, making my head spin. The feeling in the pit of my stomach says to run, to come up with some excuse as to why I need to bail on this hugely important tour. My heart argues, insisting that after all these years it's ready to heal, ready to reconnect with a girl that was always able to make it beat faster.

We parted ways with so much animosity, so much mistrust. Will she even be willing to talk to me, share the same room? My mind wanders, picturing Ashley's reaction as she reads out my band's name. She'll take it in strides, rationalizing, coming up with a game plan. Our first conversation, if it ever happens, will be meticulously calculated and rehearsed. And then, in typical Ashley fashion, that will all go out the window the second we're actually on tour. I can't help but chuckle, covering my mouth with my hand and trying to disguise it as a cough as Bob and Ray come up the hall.

"Gotta lay off the cigarettes, dude," Bob snickers, the back of his hand repeatedly bashing against the camera Ray tries to shove in his face. _Behind the Scenes Bob_ strikes again. I think this is the third camera Ray has bought, the other's falling victim to Bob and his intense dislike for being filmed. 

"I'll keep that in mind."

Something tells me cigarettes will soon be the least of my worries.

I grow increasingly anxious as the tour grows closer. It becomes almost unbearable to sit and be with myself. Wandering the streets becomes a nightly occurrence, my brain unwilling to shut up long enough to let me get more than a few hours of sleep. I smoke through packets of cigarettes, making countless trips to the corner store for more. I reorganize the living room almost every day, the ability to feel comfortable in my own space completely stripped away. The skin around my thumb will never grow back, left in a mess of scabs and scars. Even lying in bed, curled up next to Gerard, something that used to bring me immeasurable peace, isn't the same.

My mind works on its own, creating dozens of scenarios about how the next few months will play out. Keeping the extent of the fallout between Ashley and me private means I have no one to turn to, no escape from the emotions that threaten to burst through any second now. I know I should hate her for making me feel this way, but I can't seem to get my heart and brain to agree. Instead, I find myself looking forward to even getting to exist within the same context as her, excited by the idea of just seeing her face.

"Dude, come on, we should've left twenty minutes ago," Ray pounds on the bathroom door, his footsteps retreating up the hall.

Sighing, I peel myself away from the toilet, flushing down the physical manifestation of the war going on inside. It's too real, our unavoidable reunion hanging above my head like a guillotine happily welcoming my demise. There's nothing I can do to prolong it, no way I can back out and maintain our safe bubble of avoidance. My stomach lurches. Here I am, so close to twenty-five it hurts and acting like a teen boy with a crush. I sare at myself in the mirror, pointing a finger at my reflection, "Grow up." 

Yanking open the medicine cabinet, I paw out a few orange bottles, prying off the lid of one. I dump a few pills into my palm, shoving my mouth under the faucet. They sit at the base of my throat, burning. I cough, beating on my chest. After dumping the contents of the other bottles into the open one, I pull the bathroom door open. The pill bottle sits like a brick in my pocket, already showing that its contents will willingly take the reigns, allowing me to coast through this tour. As I step into the van, my fingers brush over the cap, teeth working at the inside of my cheek. 

Only if I need them.

Only if I'm about to fall off the cliff.

Just in case.

Just if she's too much.


	2. Stitches

Sugar jumps, floating up around my straw, racing back down toward the bottom of my cup. I've always hated the bus rides. Sure, traveling across the country with three of your best friends sounds like a blast, but it wears off. The art piece and color-changing lights that you thought would just be so sick end up looking more like a weird version of hell after a while. That sleepover vibe wears off and you just long for even five seconds of complete, blissful silence. Boredom sets in, the same movies you were so excited to watch becoming background noise. It's easy for the mind to wander into dangerous territory, old demons becoming new friends. Sliding open the window next to the couch, I light up a cigarette.

"You wanna talk about it?" Matt, my brother, sits down in the middle of the aisle running through the bus.

This will be our first sober tour. After almost two years of completely going off the grid, we decided now was the time. We either got back into it or accepted that our band wasn't going to make it. No one in the band is very good at failure. About a week ago we all sat on my living room floor and made a promise; communicate, no mistake is too big to share or for us to handle, no tour means more than our mental health. If one of us so much as thinks about putting a toe off the wagon, we'd call it quits. I'm pretty sure Matt things I'll go first.

He had some secret meeting with the other guys and members of our crew, explaining what those seventeen bolded letters really mean. I'm stronger than he thinks. Those letters, the man that hides behind them, they don't have any power. Not anymore. Not like everyone thinks. The power morphed to anger, the anger sliding into blissful indifference.

"Just bored," I answer with a shrug.

Matt laughs, reaching for my coffee, "It's only been a few hours, Ash. We're going to have to find you a hobby."

"Already have one," I tap the packet of cigarettes sitting on the couch by my knee, giving my older brother a wink. Just because he kicked the habit doesn't mean I have to. "Besides, I've got an album to write."

As my brother heads towards the back of the bus, I pull out a ratty writing journal. The front cover is crisscrossed in different color tape, various papers sticking out over the edges. Doodles litter the first few sheets, broken up by unfinished games of tic-tac-toe and hangman. Polaroid's and letters from friends sit, tucked between the pages, waiting patiently to help me relive past lives.

Glued inside the front cover is a note written in sloppy letters, resembling something a five-year-old would conjure up. I trail my thumb over the signature; Bert with a smiley face with its tongue out, one eye Xed over. _For your next great American record._ Despite coming off as an absolute prick, Bert has proven to be one of the best things that came out of past tours. Bert's stood by my side through way too much shit. 

Being a guitarist first, a singer second, and a lyricist dead last, I write songs through guitar chords. The lyrics flow from a sound I can't get out of my head, out of soft strumming and half rhythms. Before coming on tour, I spent a solid month sitting with a shitty tape recorder, getting out all sorts of random guitar parts, partial lyrics forming over the top. It's a starting point, a safety line thrown out into the vast ocean that is my brain. Ryan, our other guitarist, and I will spend whatever free time we've got on this tour holed up on the bus working to get the ideas out of my head and onto paper. Besides Ryan, there's only one other person who truly understands my creative process. I push him from my mind, stubbing him out like the end of a finished cigarette. _Blissful indifference._

"Ry! I need you!"

There's movement from the back of the bus, Ryan spilling forth from one of the bunks. His socked feet slide across the slicked walkway, elbows coming to rest on the table in front of me. He cradles his chin in his hands, giving me a dopey smile, "You called." 

After everything that happened between Ryan and me, people told us that band wouldn't come back. Bands don't survive failed romantic relationships. I didn't believe it for a second. Ryan and I were both able to put aside whatever shit happened in the past because we love the music; because, at the end of the day, this band means way more than our past. Then again, we were both stoned out of our minds for most of the relationship so who's to say if there were actually any real feelings there at all. Lust hardly ever leads to the messy breakups that love creates.

I scribble that down; maybe it'll fit somewhere, "Do you have those tapes I recorded?"

"Little early in the tour to go breaking out the sex tapes."

I roll my eyes, shaking my head at Ryan's childishness. He can be a real shit when he wants to be, "The guitar tapes, you perv."

"Ooohh... _those_ tapes," he smacks a hand against his forehead as if coming to some great revelation. "They're packed away with the instruments. Would you like them?"

"Please. And the player." My phone chimes, vibrating its way off the edge of the couch and onto the bus floor. "Thank you!"

I wondered how long it'd be until he called. Honestly, I was thinking we'd at least get through the first week. This isn't his first sober rodeo. His own personal devil wasn't on those tours though. For all the good Bert does, he's also destructive. He'll take down anyone who's willing to enter his arena without the proper armor, who's already teetering on the edge of self-annihilation. When Gerard met Bert, he was already way past the line, hellbent on wearing a mask of fucked up artist. Things are different not though, Gerard is dedicated to sobriety, to keeping on the road of self-love and happiness. Deep down he's still the same. There's a part of him that still loves Bert, that probably always will. 

The danger in being an artist who wears their heart on their sleeve is being willing to rip that heart into as many pieces as required to please those around you. Sure, Gerard is stronger and smarter and braver, but he still wants to be liked and accepted. That's his weak spot, the part of his personality that keeps the addiction alive. My stomach rolls as I realize the same could be said for me.

"Is having your own music as your ringback tone narcissistic?" I can hear chaos in the background before a door shuts, the other line going strangely silent. 

"Or the best form of self-promotion there is. I'm too fucking lazy to answer the phone, by the way, listen to my new album," I tap my pencil against the tabletop, wondering if I should let him continue on with his off-topic questions or just force him right to the point. "Has he called you yet, Gerard?"

There's a long silence, the crackling of a deep sigh like thunder through the phone. I light up another cigarette, "I got a new phone. I don't think he has the number. Has Frank talked to you?"

"No," I spit the word out too quickly, like poison on my tongue.

Act concerned. Act like every mention of his name doesn't make your stomach turn, doesn't make you want to scream and cry and curse. Act like Gerard needs you to act. Act like everyone expects you to after years to heal. Act. "Why?"

Close enough.

"He's been weird lately." I sit silently, hoping that Gerard will take it as me simply waiting for him to collect his thoughts and not complete apathy. "He's been throwing up and not sleeping and rearranging our living room. He either can't sit still or won't move for days."

A dozen scenarios cycle through my head. Anxiety creeping into depression. A guilty conscience. Love. Hate. Resentment. Could he be on pills again? _No! Stop it._ I'm not supposed to care. _I don't care._ Whatever shit Frank is putting himself through is none of my business. This is probably some kind of sick punishment he thinks he deserves, some way to push people away to feel isolated enough to drag out an artistic breakthrough. Frank's twisted like that.

I swallow all these thoughts down. Gerard cares for Frank. I need to force compassion, act caring, "You guys haven't done a big tour like this in a while. Maybe he's just nervous. You know Frank and his stage fright." I force a chuckle.

"Yeah." There's a short pause as if Gerard is really trying to take in what I've said. "Yeah." This one come out more certain, more convinced. "Are you getting in tonight?"

"I'm pretty sure. I actually think we're getting close, maybe another few hours. What about you? Are you flying in or busing it from Jersey?"

"Bussing from Jersey. We'll be in early tomorrow. I'll come by once we get there."

"You better." I flick my cigarette butt out the window, going for another, and then thinking better of it, tucking my hand under my leg. "Bring donuts. You still owe me."

Gerard laughs, "Whatever you want. By, Ash."

Ryan peeks his head around the curtain that separates the bunks form the front of the bus, "Bert?"

"No," I pop one of the tapes I recorded into the player as Ryan sits down on the couch next to me. "It was Gerard."

"What'd he call about?"

I glance over at Ryan, ripping little pieces of skin off my bottom lip, swallowing down the bile that rises in my throat, "Frank."

 _Blissful indifference_.


	3. Guilt Tripping

She wears a tie-dye hoodie, pulled down to cover whatever shorts she's got on. Her hair, now a striking purple-gray, is trapped under her hood, a few strands dancing around her face, caught up in the breeze. The tip of the wing on her blue and green phoenix tattoo peeks up over her collar, jumping as she swallows. She digs a rainboot covered toe into the mud, kicking up a rock. Her stormy blue eyes flick around the tent, landing on anything but me.

Trailing a few paces behind the ray of sunshine that is Ashley, is the king of the fucking rain clouds himself; Bert McCracken. He'll follow her around all tour like a pathetic puppy dog, hiding behind the guise of protecting her from the big bad wolf that he's painted me to be. What a sad excuse for a human being. What an absolute waste of an orgasm. I pop a pill onto my tongue, chasing it down with bitter coffee.

I watch as he curls his arms around her, her face lighting up as he presses sloppy lips to a porcelain cheek. Please tell me she's not with that guy. Anyone else I could stomach. Anyone else and I can keep sleeping at night knowing she's at least safe and maybe happy. Not Bert though. He doesn't know what happiness is. He's a killer of souls. The grim reaper of hopes and dreams. Bert decimates all he comes into contact with, taking until there's nothing left but vacant eyes. Ashley and Bert share some kind of joke, each crossing their eyes as they stick out their tongues.

My stomach rolls. I have to remind myself I lost the privilege to care a long time ago. 

Ashley's eyes once again sweep the tent, lighting up as they brush over me. For a few seconds, I forget how to breathe, preparing myself to catch a squealing Ashley, her thin frame flying across the muddy ground. Though I was expecting more sarcastic comments and deathly side-eyeing, I'll take this greeting. We can put everything behind us; act like no hateful words were exchanged, no feelings were hurt. We can get back to who we were before. I'd welcome it after the years of radio silence. 

She blurs past my awkwardly outstretched arms, giggling as Gerard swings her through the air. I remind myself another pill is not the answer, filling my constricting throat with lukewarm sludge serenading as coffee.

"Well, maybe if you weren't so damn busy all the time," Gerard sasses, bumping his hip into Ashley's, the two of them laughing easily.

They've always had such a lighthearted friendship, Gerard instantly letting Ashley into his inner world. For almost four months they were inseparable, Ashley able to help Gerard through one of his darkest times in ways no one else could. She was gentle with him, reminding him it is okay to have demons and make mistakes. I think Ashley was just removed enough for him to feel like he hadn't disappointed her or that he wasn't unworthy of her forgiveness.

"Maybe if you'd hurry up and move to California like you keep saying," Ashley gives it right back, sticking her tongue out at our singer as he rolls his eyes. 

The words out of her mouth hit me like a knife. Since when has Gerard talked about moving to California? He seems so content in Jersey, often talking about buying a home and settling down. We've discussed long term and what a life together would look like. California has never been part of that plan. Gerard hates the state, constantly complaining about the traffic and the people anytime we end up there for a show or video shoot. He was pretty devastated when Mikey announced that he would be moving out there permanently.

Another hard swig of coffee, the liquid getting caught in my throat, going down like a brick. Sputtering, I tip forward on my toes, fingertips brushing against Gerard's palm. He captures my hand in his, baggy jacket sleeve concealing the comforting tough. I hum, running my thumb over Gerard's smooth knuckles, little sparks of electricity bouncing between us.

"You know I love Jersey too much to ever leave." A quick squeeze of my hand, some kind of silence signal to tell me I've got nothing to worry about. Gerard isn't making secret plans behind my back, not trying to run off into the night and leave me behind. "You could always move back. That apartment you liked is up for sale again."

Ashley chuckles, pulling a cigarette packet out of her rainboot, offering one to Gerard as she lights her own. Blue eyes flick to meet mine, "Believe me, New Jersey does not want me back."

"Yeah well, it'd be hard to go back to a state that didn't want you in the first place."

And so it begins. The first shot in the war to end all wars. I just had to be the one to take it. _Stupid. You complete idiot. When will you ever learn to keep your fucking mouth shut?_ But it wasn't really me talking. Sure, my mouth moved but it's not my brain controlling it. The pill bottle digs into my thigh through the thin material of my pants pocket, lulling me into a false sense of invincibility. If things get too far out of hand, if I do something really stupid, they'll be more than willing to take the blame. Words don't matter when it isn't really you facing the consequences.

I watch the storm slowly swirl to life in Ashley's eyes. There will be no mercy this time. This time, Ashley is out for blood.

She lets out a short huff of a laugh from her nose, lips drawn into a wicked smirk, "I heard Jersey is basically a cesspool now, full of wannabe rockstars and junkies. Looks like you stayed exactly where you belong." She turns to Gerard, giving him a quick hug. "Later."

"You can't say shit like that," I get a sharp jab to the stomach, Gerard hissing at me as Ashley disappears between the line of buses, her entourage close behind.

Bert runs his shoulder into mine as he passes, glaring at me through a curtain of grease streaked hair, "Better watch yourself, Iero. Wouldn't want to start a fight you can't finish."

"She's too good for you, man," I take a step forward, lose my footing, and fall back into Gerard. "Way too fucking good."

~~~~~~

I love playing. I love the roar of the crowd and the kick of adrenaline. I love watching Gerard prance around stage, acting like he owns the whole place. I love the way he'll wink at me or just appear on my side of the stage, bumping into me or shoving the microphone in my face.

Despite all that, these first few shows feel like a chore, like I'm just going through the motions. I long for that feeling of pure bliss, the feeling of the kickdrum taking over my heartbeat, sending my body into overdrive. It doesn't come. There are no butterflies in my stomach as Gerard rubs his forehead against mine, no thrill in the kids screaming our lyrics back up at us. The pills in my pocket weigh heavy, taunting, offering me freedom from consequences at the small price of sucking the thrill of life out of me one escape at a time.

"After our next European tour, we should see about staying. We could rent a cabin up in the mountains; do touristy shit. I could work on my comic. You could work on your next solo album," Gerard suggests as we pull out of our third stop on tour, petting my head, his hand lingering on my cheek. "Just have it be the two of us for a little."

Twisting around, I stare at him for a little, watching the moonlight wash over his pale skin. Gerard really is beautiful. The way his eyes glint, the way the corner of his mouth sits in a constant smile, his fingers working over a fresh sheet of paper, how his tongue slides out over his bottom lip when he really concentrates. I wish he saw that, "Since when did you get all romantic?"

"Fuck you, Frank," Gerard giggles, crawling into my waiting arms, curling up against my chest. "I've always been romantic. You just chose to ignore it."

"Cupping my balls while drunk isn't my definition of a romantic gesture," I tease, sticking my tongue out.

Gerard sighs, tracing over the tattoos littering my forearm. The feeling is ecstasy, "I'm being serious. I want to start doing vacations and dates and whatever other shit couples do. Unless you don't want to, then forget I ever said anything."

"Hey," I collect Gerard's face in my hands, pressing my lips to the tip of his nose, "Of course I want to do that stuff with you."

Gerard settles back against my chest, letting me run my fingers through his shaggy hair, tracing patterns against his skin. It's a big deal for Gerard to suggest something like this. He likes being private, keeping our relationship quiet, only between the two of us. Despite sometimes feeling like he is embarrassed to be linked with me, I get it. Gerard's questioned his sexuality since he was young. Most of this is new to him. Going slow and keeping our intimacy between us helps him settle into his new identity.

I remember when I first came out as bisexual. It felt like the biggest deal in the whole world. My stomach ate away at itself for weeks, my body developing abnormal twitches. I've shared this story with Gerard before, omitting a few things to avoid questions, to avoid talking about her.

Ashley was the first person I told about my sexuality. She seemed safe, having confided in me about her own preferences not even a month prior. Even though I knew she wasn't going to judge me or kick me out of her life, I barely made it through the five-minute bike ride over without throwing up. The words kind of just spilled out of my mouth, my dirty little secret hanging up with the light of the Benson's entryway. Ashley just grinned, said rad, and asked if I wanted a Coke. She told me if I ever needed to talk about it she would be there. It was simple, like ripping off a Band-Aid that was already soggy from the shower.

"You're thinking about her," Gerard's words pull me from the memory.

"What?"

"Ashley. You're thinking about her. Your cheeks always get warm and red." There's sadness in Gerard's words and I wonder just how much of a conversation I missed out on.

Sighing, I brush my hair away from my face. There's no use in lying. Gerard's too good at calling out my bullshit. He knows there's something between Ashley and me. Usually, I can dodge his questions, protecting him from an angry past, from a person I try not to be anymore. "It's hard not to sometimes. She's my past, all my high school memories, most of my young adulthood. We've not been this close to each other in a long time."

"And yet you lashed out at her this morning."

Gerard's way of prying without flat out asking the obvious question. He thinks if he catches me off guard, making statements I either have to confirm or deny, he'll get more out of me. I've never been good at just saying yes or no. I have to explain. He knows this.

"Yeah," I shrug, "we aren't great with traditional hellos."

Or goodbyes. Or love. Or friendship. Or hatred. Or guilt. Or life. The urge to scream and cry and lash out against the emotions I'm being forced to feel takes over. How do you get out from under a blanket of guilt you knit yourself?

"She, uh - she knew I was joking."

Gerard gives me a nod, the look in his eyes letting me know I've not convinced him even a little, "Sure seemed like it. Look, I'm not trying to pry, your past is yours, but maybe it's time to put whatever bullshit happened to bed. Maybe being here on tour is your chance. Maybe your roads were meant to cross at exactly this moment."

"I know you're all about forgiving and moving on, but I'm not so sure what happened can be fixed. Sometimes you just can't come back from things."


	4. Fake Friends

"What, are you like stalking me now?"

He lounges against the building, a smoldering cigarette held tightly between his fingers. The corners of his lips tug up into a smirk as golden eyes land on me. I hate that fucking smart-ass smile. If I hadn't promised I'd be civil I'd smack it right off his stupid face. A face that millions of teen girls and boys swoon over every night. Look at Frank and his amazing guitar skills. Look at Frank in his tight jeans and sweaty white shirt. Look at how sweet Frank is. Look at how nice and caring Frank is to his fans. Look at Frank. If only they knew who he really is, a narcissistic playboy; they'd never want to look at him again.

"I see you're still paranoid."

Digging out my own cigarette, I clench it between my lips, talking out of the side of my mouth, "I see you're still an asshole."

"It's a small venue," He scoots down the wall, rolling onto his shoulder so we're facing each other. "Just because I happen to be near the same building as you doesn't mean I'm stalking you."

I hate the way he looks at me, his eyes still gentle and caring. He stares at me from under his eyelashes, crossing his arms over his chest to mirror my stance. 

Taking a long drag off my cigarette, I blow the smoke in his face, "I'm going to close my eyes. When I open them, I want you to be gone. We'll play that game through tour, okay? Like hide and seek except I'm never going to be looking for you. Just because you're parked ten steps away from me every day doesn't mean we have to interact. I walk into a room and you walk out. You step off your bus, I'll get back into mine. Do not appear out of nowhere and try to initiate a conversation neither of us wants to have. I do not forgive you. I will not forget what you did. I never will. _Give up_."

"What makes you think I want forgiveness? I've gone this long without it, a few more decades shouldn't hurt." He takes another step closer to me.

My body screams, begging me to step back, to disappear inside the venue. I won't though. He will not get the upper hand here. If I show even the slightest sign of weakness, the tiniest glimpse of his actions bothering me, I'll lose it all. He'll have won and I refuse to let that happen. Frank Iero does not get to have any power, not now, not ever again.

"You need to get your shit together, snap out of whatever angsty bullshit you're trying to pull. Gerard is starting to ask questions. I won't keep lying for you."

"So don't." He's in my face now, our noses almost touching. "You were the one who wanted to tell him what actually happened."

To know the truth would crush Gerard. He loves both of us. For his own sanity, Gerard needs to think Frank and I naturally fell apart. Not all people who were friends in high school still talk. If Gerard knew the truth he'd feel like he had to pick sides. Forcing him into that would be cruel, "That'd crush him." 

"Exactly," Frank reaches up, cupping my cheek in his hand, a cloud of smoke swirling in front of our faces. "So you'll keep your mouth shut, won't you? You and your guilt. Honestly, Ashley, I'm surprised it hasn't eaten you alive yet."

I jerk my face away from his touch, "I'd say the same about you, but we both know you're unable to care about anyone but yourself. Remember your role, Frank, and we can make it through this tour and then never have to see each other again."

"Until Gerard asks you to be the opener for our next headlining tour," Frank smirks back. 

"I'd rather stick a thousand razor blades under my skin than spend an entire tour with you, you fucking asshole."

"Such cruel words from such a pretty - " 

"Ashley?" Bert's voice floats around the side of the building, the man appearing seconds later. He studies the scene laid out before him, eyebrows screwing together as he grows closer. "Is everything okay out here?"

Frank rolls away, his back now securely pressed into the brick wall. Bert is on Frank's shit list, permanently inked there as the man who ruined Gerard. Only further proof that Frank's pettiness knows no bounds. Gerard was solidly on the road to self-destruction before he met Bert. Bert simply held Gerard's hand on the walk.

"Just having a chat," Frank shrugs. "Reminiscing about the good old days."

"Should be a short conversation," Bert wraps an arm around my shoulders, accepting the half-smoked cigarette I offer him. "The way Ashley tells it there was more devastatingly terrible than good."

The guitarist offers another lame shrug, shooting me a sideways glance, "Ashely's done a lot of drugs. Her recollection of things isn't always so accurate."

"Don't you dare do that." A solid shove to the chest prevents Bert from lunging at Frank who wears an amused grin. "You're lucky she's here."

Frank chuckles, shaking his head as he tosses the butt of his cigarette to the ground, "You two are pathetic."

"Let's go, Ash, you don't need to deal with him." Bert and I push off the wall. Wrapping my arm around his ribs, we head back toward the side entrance.

"Yeah, that's right, follow him back inside like a good girl."

Burying my face in Bert's side, I try to hide the pain Frank's words caused. How did we end up like this? Frank was my world. He was the person I told everything to. We were thick as thieves, basically conjoined twins. We had each other's back, going to bat for each other at the drop of a hat. All I ever wanted was to see him win, to see him happy.

It was never enough though. I wasn't enough to hold his attention. Once living on the same eccentric planet, now we can't even be in each other's orbit without an explosion. He traded up for the newer, shinier model. Boys with their toys, right? Too bad Frank has to completely destroy his old things before he's able to move on to the new one.

Once we're back inside, Bert takes me by the shoulders, holding me out in front of him. Puffy eyes scan over my face, his thumb sweeping over my cheek to catch a traitorous tear. "Fuck him, Ash. You shouldn't let some pretty boy like him make you feel this way. You're a fucking legend. He has to hump his guitar to make people think he knows how to play. Dude's just pissed cause you blew up and he's still playing with a fucking tween band."

"You used to like that tween band," I challenge, giving the singer a smile.

I know he's trying his best to cheer me up. Bert's way of doing that is trashing anyone who says anything bad about me. If it was anyone else I'd probably be pissed, but coming from Bert it's kind of sweet. I like the fact he's willing to stand up for me for no other reason than he thinks I'm a cool chick and likes the music I make.

Bert rolls his eyes, tucking my neck in the crook of his elbow, ruffling my hair, "I was on a lot of drugs back then, my opinions weren't always accurate."

"Fuck off, Bert." Giggling, I press my tongue to his wrist, using his temporary shock to break free of his hold, taking off across the room toward the stage. 

~~~~~

The roar of the crowd sends me to a new level, raising me up above the rafters, flying to undiscovered heights. I lose myself on stage, putting every ounce of energy into the performance. My motto for performing has always been to leave it all on the stage. If I'm not throwing myself back into my bunk, too tired to even shower after a show, I've done it wrong.

Our set for this tour is probably my favorite we've ever done. It ends with me sitting on the edge of the stage, completely alone with the microphone and my most prized possession; a custom aqua blue Suhr electric guitar. The last decent thing my past did for me.

"I wrote this song for my brother."

The chords ring out, hanging in the electrically charged air. The crowd roars as they recognize the opening. I rip my wounds wide open, voice mixing with those of the fans. My brother on the drums picks up the beat, his gravely voice meeting mine. Together we sing about a troubled past, a screwed up family life, about hope for the future.

That final bow is everything. The lights coming up, allowing me to see hundreds of kids crying along with me, understanding, purging their own demons. 

"We are Claim of the Broken. Keep fighting. It's worth it." 


	5. Impulse

She's breathtaking; sitting under a single spotlight, dust swirling around her, legs dangling over the edge of the stage. Grinning, I watch as her fingers work over the strings of the last good thing I ever did for her. That guitar is my little glimmer of hope, the one thing that lets me know she's not completely shut me out of her life.

Ashley's smooth voice cuts through the crowd, everyone in the audience hanging onto her every word. She's got a way of taking you on a journey with her songs. That's a talent Ashley's always had; the envy of all artists. It's the one thing, no matter how angry we've been at each other, that keeps me enamored with her. You feel the pain or the rage she's feeling as she sings. You can't fight it. Ashley demands that you don't. Watching her play forces you to think and to experience and to change if even for a moment.

My gaze follows her as she bows, one hand clasped over her heart, the other extended out towards the crowd. I'm envious of those who get to experience this for the first time. It's a thrill. Ashley begged me not to go to her first show with Claim of the Broken. Despite playing in nearly a dozen bands together she said that knowing I was in the crowd would make her nervous. I snuck in as the house lights dimmed, sticking toward the back of the bar. She stormed out onto the stage in a set of leather pants, shaking up a bottle of champagne. She shouted out some obscenities before popping the cork, coating those in the front row with frothy liquid before tearing into the first song. She's always been one for a dramatic greeting. 

I should've been nicer this afternoon. Bringing up Ashley's past addictions was a low blow, the lowest I could possibly get. I was grasping at straws, trying to get the upper hand. Ashley's mention of Gerard threw me off. He's a sore spot between the two of us. Bert didn't help either. No matter what I said, he'd paint it in a negative light, twisting my words so that they sounded like poison in Ashley's ears. 

Turns out I didn't need Bert's assistance this time. I did a fine job of crushing Ashley all by myself. At least I can only go up from here. I need to lay off the pills. They make me foggy, make me say stupid things I don't mean. They take the sting out of real life, no consequences if it's all just a big joke. Maybe I'm the joke.

I shouldn't even be putting this much effort into her. It's just been so long since I've been around her, I don't know how to act. There are so many things I wish I could say. Despite everything that happened, despite our fall out, I never really stopped caring about her. That doesn't matter now. I've got what I caused all the grief for. 

I should be focusing on Gerard. He is what I ruined everything for. He's the one I wanted. He's the one I thought about constantly, pulling my attention from Ashley. Gerard is everything to me. Gerard who has his arm slung over my shoulder. Gerard who presses his lips to the top of my head every night before we go on stage. Gerard who lets me squeeze myself into his tiny bunk just so we can sleep next to each other. Gerard who willingly shrugs out of his jacket when I forget mine and start complaining about the cold. Sweet, gently, compassionate Gerard who is muddling through his own identity, trying to be brave, trying to be what he thinks I need. He should have my undivided attention. I need to get my head on straight. I need to stop thinking about her or I'll ruin this too. I can't fuck this one up. _Please don't let me fuck this up._

As Ray plays his solo, I stride across the stage, letting my guitar hang limply at my stomach. Gently, I take Gerard's face in my hands. He looks at me, so much trust in his eyes. Slowly, I move my face closer to his, trying to communicate that what I'm about to do is okay. The fans will still be there; they'll still love him just the same. Absolutely nothing has to change. There will be no judgment or harsh criticism. If there is, I'll handle it. I'll take the bullets. I'll be the one that bleeds out to save him. 

My lips crash against Gerard's, fingers tangling in his hair. For a few seconds, the world falls away. Gerard and I are the only two perfectly fucked up souls in the whole world, our lips creating a perfect melody. All too soon, he's sliding away from me, replacing my lips with the microphone, singing out the final lines of the song.

For the rest of the night, I wait for the blowback, his cold shoulder, the comments from my bandmates that always follow an impulsive decision like this. My stomach churns, heart picking an unfriendly rhythm. Fingers curl around my throat, threatening to cut off all breathing. I've thrown myself into the deep end of a pool and forgotten how to swim. 

As more time passes, the sinking feeling increases. I nearly vomit as Gerard wanders up from the back of the bus, coffee cup held between his hands. He sinks into the couch, draping his legs over mine, "You kissed me."

"Yes." I don't know what else to say, mind going completely blank.

This is it. He'll tell me it was too much too soon. We won't talk for weeks, skirting around each other, trying to force a sense of normalcy. _Stupid. So fucking stupid_. I need to reign in my impulses. I need to be okay with keeping things simple and quiet, only between us. I can't keep pushing Gerard. In trying to show him how much he means to me, I fucked up. This time it won't just be a complete cut off for a few days, it'll be total isolation. I swallow down the bile rising in my throat, burning me from the inside out. 

"In front of all those people."

"Yes."

Gerard takes a sip of coffee, adding anticipation, building up to his fatal blow, "You've never done that before."

"No." This is painful, like slowly peeling off my own skin. My fingers twitch, going for the bottle that isn't there. I wish he'd just spit it out. I can feel my brain pushing against my skull, heart pounding in my ears. "Gerard - "

He leans forward, snuffing out my next thought with his lips against mine. His hand slides around the back of my neck, holding me to him. His teeth nibble at my bottom lip, eliciting a throaty moan. The Devil taught Gerard how to kiss. His lips dripping with honey, fingers doing magic tricks against my skin. His touch puts me in a trance, soft lips working against my leaving me warm and buzzing. This is better than any high. We pull apart, panting, my forehead finding its way to the crook of Gerard's neck.

His voice cracks, words coming out in a hoarse whisper, "You're lucky I didn't do you right on stage."

Choking on the air trying to make its way down my throat, I beat on my chest, wiping away the water that fills my eyes. This can't be real life. This _isn't_ real life. The guy who won't let me hold his hand out in public is fine with me kissing him on stage in front of thousands? Laughter bubbles up, slipping through swollen lips as I lift my head, staring at Gerard," You're too much, you know that?"

"Oh, shut up," Gerard rolls his eyes, giving me a playful wink. "You love it."

I hum, nuzzling Gerard's neck with my nose, grinning into his shoulder, "Maybe."

Clothes litter the center aisle of the bus, sunlight pouring in through the window, burning tired eyes. Groaning, I stretch my arms over my head, fingers brushing against soft material. Rubbing at my eyes, I pry them open, staring up into Gerard's sparkling hazel ones. "Good morning."

"Morning sleepy," he waits for me to sit up, pulling the blanket I don't remember grabbing last night up over my lap before handing me a cup of coffee.

For a few minutes, we sit in silence, each just enjoying the other's company, "Are we driving?"

"No, we pulled in like fifteen minutes ago. Everyone else is out at the tent getting food. Mikey said he'd bring us something back."

"No more bagels. I can't eat any more fucking bagels," I grumble.

"Someone's grumpy," Gerard chuckles. "I thought you'd be in a good mood after last night."

Leaning my head on Gerard's shoulder, I press my lips to his neck, "I am in a fantastic mood." He's got a sketchpad resting on his lap, the beginnings of a drawing dusting the paper. "What're you working on?"

Gerard flips the pad shut, setting it to the side as he slides an arm around me, "Well, I was trying to draw you sleeping, but you woke up."

"Terribly sorry."

He kisses my temple, giving me a wink, "That's okay, you can make up for it tonight."


	6. Me and My Brian

"I'm here with Claim of the Broken. For those of you who have been living under a rock, they are a New Jersey rock band that is blowing up the scene right now. People can't seem to get enough of you guys."

Ryan chuckles, fiddling with the microphone cord, "It's so weird, man. One second you're nobody sitting in a basement and the next you can't even go into 7/11 without people stopping you for a picture. And it's everywhere. We've been out in California for two or three years now and the kids out there stop us."

"How are you all adjusting to the reclaimed fame?"

"You never really adjust to something like this, especially after kinda shying away from it for years. It's like having on pants without pockets and wondering what you're supposed to do with your hands. You're kinda just hoping you don't accidentally shove them in someone else's pockets," Matt explains, rocking back and forth on the couch. He's never been comfortable with interviews. He thinks they're forced and awkward. It's worse now that he's stopped drinking. 

The interviewer, a young guy with shaggy brown hair, chuckles, "Is putting your hands in other's pockets something you do often?"

Andrew, our drummer, reaches forward, tucking a few fingers into the interviewer's jean pocket, "Only if you're into it man."

"There you have it," the interviewer chuckles. "Claim of the Broken willing to put their hands in your pockets. That's a once in a lifetime experience. I feel privileged to have gotten to share that moment with you. Now, you guys are one of a few bands on this tour. How has the tour been so far?" 

Taking the microphone from Ryan, I bounce it against my nose, trying to think of a way to save an interview that is quickly going off the rails. We're all way to immature to take any of this stuff seriously. I don't know how some bands so these things back to back and sound so eloquent and put together.

"Smelly. Loud. Kinda like being trapped in a boy's locker room. But jokes aside, it's been a blast. We're getting to see tons of old friends and the crowds have been amazing. I've never felt more welcomed and part of something bigger than me than I have at these shows. The kids bring out such good energy." 

"Old friends like Frank Iero?"

The microphone slides out of my hand, my brother catching it seconds before it hits the ground. I was an idiot for thinking they wouldn't ask questions like this. Frank and I canceled a tour, stopped talking without any kind of public statement. It's natural for people to have questions. I guess I just wasn't expecting it to be this direct. Even when he's not in the room, I can't seem to get away from Frank. He haunts my past like a poltergeist, jumping out to cause mischief and grief at what should be my safest moments.

"Old friends like Bert McCracken or Patrick Stump."

I pray that gets the point across. We're on camera. I can't act like these questions throw me off or make me uncomfortable. The rumor mill works at the speed of light. The last thing I need is new accusations thrown around.

"I thought Frank was a friend."

Matt takes over, clearing his throat, "Sorry, we thought this interview was supposed to be about the band and what we've been doing musically."

"It is," the interviewer insists, his eyes still trained on me. There's accusation in them. He knows that this is a touchy topic and he's willing to pry until he gets the answers or outburst he wants. "How has your relationship with Frank Iero shaped the music you've written since the collab?"

 _Keep it together, Ashley. You can't come off as a diva._ I have to keep a level head here. Just redirect. Act like the question wasn't asked. Talk about something else, anything else. The cap to my water bottle spins off funny, the bottle dropping into my lap, spilling water all over my crotch. _Shit_. Why couldn't he keep asking about us putting our hands on other people?

Words are coming out of my mouth but I can't hear them, cold water seeping into my skin, making me feel sticky, "I did a few songs with him years ago. That hasn't influenced anything I've done. Believe me, there's - "

"Is it true you no longer talk?"

It's like my other bandmates aren't even here. This guy does get that I'm not a one-man band? The anger bubbles up, building like a fire in my stomach, the flames licking at my throat, begging me to let them out to play. I swallow, my tongue like sandpaper in my mouth. Spots play in front of my vision, forcing me to slam my eyes shut, sucking in a deep breath through parted lips. _Don't lash out. Don't lash out. Hande this like an adult_ ; like the twenty-three your old adult that you are.

"I'm sorry. I'm not going to answer that and honestly, unless you can ask relevant questions, this interview is going to be over. My relationship with Frank has nothing to do with anyone else in the band."

Not my best work, but it'll have to do.

"How did you feel seeing My Chem on the lineup?"

My bandmates seem to notice the tension building in the room and quickly jump in, coming to my rescue, "They're an amazing band, one of the biggest in the scene right now. It's been an honor to share this tour with them so far."

"Will you all be spending time with them while on tour?"

Despite his dislike for interviews, Matt steps up, giving my knee a quick squeeze, "We've been hanging out with everyone. Tours like this are kind of like reunions. There's a lot of people here we've not seen in a long time. It's great to get to just hang out and play really cool music."

"Now, Ashley, I'm assuming this is the first time you've been in contact with Frank since the few shows you played together after his album release. Do you think this tour will give you two time to rekindle your friendship?"

Digging. Prying. Jiggling the screw just a little bit more, hoping it'll come undone. I don't have to deal with this. The rest of the band doesn't need to be subjected to this. I won't sit here and be tortured and have my words twisted.

"Let me get one thing straight. I am not the band. Matt, Andrew, Ryan, and I are the band. We are not on this tour because of Frank. Frank and my friendship is no one's business but ours. Besides, I doubt I'll have much time to hang out with anyone between sets and recording the new album." Standing, I slap the microphone against the interviewer's chest, "This interview is over."

"Ashley! Ash! We need to talk about this!" I storm off, ignoring the cries of protest from the other members of the band. I can't be here. I need to get away, have a drink or ten. Pressing my palms into my eyes, I see little stars dancing before them.

"I need to find Bert."

He's sat on the curb next to his bus, smoking a cigarette, a beer bottle tucked between his feet. I drop to the ground in front of him, head going to my hands. The beer appears before my face, the liquid inside sloshing against the glass sides, "You look like you need it more than me."

"Do you have recording equipment in your bus?"

The beer fizzes over my tongue, sour liquid rushing down my throat and landing in my stomach like a brick. I blew up and now I have to fix the problem I've created. My hope is that Bert will be there to bail my dumbass out like all the times before. Think before you speak, don't let your temper control you, don't let his name spend you into a spiral; all life lessons I've not mastered yet. _Fucking idiot._ A few more swigs from the bottle help to calm my racing mind, relaxing my frantic heart.

"No. What did you do?"

I glare back at Bert, hating how easily he can read me, "What makes you think I did something?"

"Hmm, maybe the fact you came tearing over here, drank my shitting beer, and then asked if I have recording equipment. We can sit here all night and play games or you can just tell me."

Shaking my head, I let out a forced chuckle, spinning the now empty beer bottle around on the sandy concrete, "I may have said that I was recording an album on this tour."

"Why?" 

"The fucking interviewer started asking questions about what happened with Frank and I panicked."

"Why?"

If he asks that question one more time I swear I'll rip his vocal cords out, "Well, I figured it was better than saying he's an asshole that doesn't care about anything but the next person he can put his dick in."

"A new album was probably the better choice."

Snickering, I roll my eyes, "Ya think?"

Bert scoots off the curb, taking my face in his hands. He gives me a sympathetic smile, rubbing circles on my cheek with his thumb, "How many songs do you have written?"

"Maybe three that could be viable. The rest is just scribbles, lines here and there."

On a scale from one to totally fucked, I'm totally fucked. Beyond fucked. Fans will expect an album shortly after the tour now. Our label will start to put on the pressure. There are only so many excuses before it just starts to sound like bullshit. Going dark may have worked once, but I seriously doubt we can pull that off again. Of all the things I could have said. I could have said I was writing an album. I could have not brought up the album at all. Why is Frank still able to dig his claws into my brain and pull the strings? 

Because I still care. Deep down sit the shattered pieces of what I thought was a future. Little pricks of pain still cause agony, showing themselves in the shadows of endless night. Because even after all the yelling and accusations there was no closure. Because there are a million new questions every day that I have to leave unanswered. We were golden, but I guess even gold rusts if you leave it out in the rain long enough. At the end of the day, I was the girl that was stupid enough to put my heart out on the table only for it to get ripped apart by someone who promised to keep it safe. That's the part I keep hidden, tucked safely away inside, where it can do no damage to anyone but me. Protecting the people I love is more important. My idiocy is not their burden.

A gentle squeeze to my cheek pulls me out of my thoughts, "Here's what we'll do. You focus on writing. I'll find someone on tour with the equipment you need. Uncle Bert's got you, little girl. Don't ever forget that."

"Don't call yourself Uncle Bert," I wrinkle my nose, "It makes you sound like a pedophile."

Bert wanders onto the bus a few hours later, an amused smirk set on his face. He explains the situation, insisting over and over that he asked everyone on tour about the eqipment, "There's no one else that has everything you need, Ash."

"You've got to be shitting me."


	7. World Destroyer

I move in a fog, the days and night mixing together. Coffee and a few pills for breakfast, pills for lunch, and enough booze to knock me out for the night. I'm falling, the dark pit swallowing me, no discernable bottom in sight. My hands shake, fingers aching as they press into cold metal strings. The little orange bottle sitting in my pocket becoming my own personal hell. Their nails have sunk into my skin, digging into that part of me they know is the weakest. I fight off the shakes; the itching that never goes away. A shred of normalcy is all I'm holding onto and the strands are fraying at an alarming rate.

I cling to Gerard, the two of us moving as one. He becomes my shining light at the end of the tunnel. I pour every ounce of consciousness into making things between us perfect. Amongst the fog, something must be working. He's becoming more confident in us, showing affection at every chance he gets.

Stumbling off the bus, I dig the cigarettes out of my pocket, pulling my hood up against the steady drizzle. Huddled under an umbrella are Gerard and Ashley, a thin veil of smoke hanging around them. Guess my smoke break will have to wait until she's done with hers. So far we've both been sticking to the dumbass rule she created. As I go to walk back up the bus steps, Gerard calls out my name. 

"Don't stand out in the rain. Come stand with us."

Gerard slings his arm over my shoulders as I grow closer, holding me tightly to his side. Ashley looks through me, dropping the butt of her cigarette to the muddy ground and immediately lighting another, "Ash and I were just talking about a schedule for the recording stuff in the bus. She got herself into a little predicament."

Ashley rolls her eyes, blowing smoke out through her nose, "Little is an understatement."

"What's going on, Gerard?"

"Ashley announced an album to be recorded on this tour. I guess we're the only band with the stuff she needs to make that happen. She'll be using the recording gear on our bus in the mornings while we're rehearsing." Gerard grins over at Ashley like this is the best announcement he's ever made. She forces a smile, cigarette clenched between her teeth.

This has got to be a fucking joke. Now, not only am I supposed to evacuate any area where Ashley is, but I also have to abandon my own bus so she can record? What kind of sick twisted karma is this? Taking in a slow breath, I tell myself not to be upset with Gerard. He was just trying to help. I need to pretend like everything is fine. I shouldn't care about this. Ashley and I are supposed to be on good terms. Some more faking it can't hurt. God, I'm so screwed. At least the shows have been going off without a hitch because the rest of this tour is a disaster.

"Well, if she was planning on recording why doesn't her band have the equipment?"

"It wasn't planned," Ashley grumbles, picking at the mud with the toe of her shoe, the white rubber quickly stained a reddish-brown.

I hold back a snicker. Ashley's impulsiveness has gotten her into trouble yet again. I guess some leopards never can change their spots. I wonder how much I can pry before her wicked tongue comes out to play. While I wish it did, Gerard being here doesn't create a safety net between us. Ashley will push back against any snide comments I decided to make. I have to tread lightly. Gerard is Ashley's friend. He'll come to her defense, having no issue with calling me out for being a prick.

"What happened?" Safe enough.

Surprisingly enough, Ashley seems to be playing along, happy almost, to put on a mask of civility, "An interviewer got mouthy. I got mouthy back."

Mouthy? All interviews from tour will be up on the official page. My curiosity now piqued, I itch to go look at what happened. While impulsive, Ashley typically isn't one to lose her temper over badly worded or off-topic questions. She's usually one to enjoy the quirky interviews that have almost nothing to do with the actual project she's working on. Those interviews make her feel more comfortable. There's no pressure to sell anything or say the right thing. Something big must've happened to set her off enough to announce an album. Either way, it puts us both in the shittest situation.

"I'm going to more coffee," Gerard announces, handing the umbrella over to Ashley before wandering over to one of the big white tents set up for refreshments.

Ashley stares at me for a few seconds, chewing at the cigarette filter between her teeth, "My rule still applies."

"You aren't going to force me off my own bus. That's ridiculous."

She's officially lost it. A girl I used to think was reasonable, willing to work through issues like an adult, is now acting like a drama queen. I won't be forced off my bus because she decided to lose her temper in an interview. This is her emergency, not mine. I've been accommodating, stepping on eggshells around her for weeks now. I'm not going to break my own back to appease her anymore.

"No, Frank, what you did was ridiculous. This is being professional."

I let out a scoff, crossing my arms over my chest. Professional? No fucking way. Professionals would be us, able to occupy the same space for longer than five seconds without going for each other's throats. Professional would be Ashley not giving me icy glares anytime I so much as pass her in the venue. Professional would have not been losing her cool and putting herself in this hole in the first place. 

"Don't give that shit, Ashley. Nothing about what you're doing is professional. You're acting like a spoiled child. I'm not sure what kind of crap-ass attitude your bandmates allow you to have, but I'm not putting up with it. You won't force me out of my bus."

"And here I thought your parents taught you how to share your toys."

"What you're proposing isn't sharing."

Ashley gives me a shrug, continuing to coat the toe of her shoe with mud, "You're boyfriend already agreed to it. If you have an issue with it go talk to him."

Since when does Ashley know about Gerard and me? I mean sure, we're not always discrete, ut it's not been announced. Nothing we do screams dating. There's an excuse for everything we've ever done, some way to deflect the dating rumors. Gerard has meticulously worked to make sure that is the case.

"Who told you?"

"You did, just now with your reaction." Ashley wears a smug smile, a mischievous glint in her eyes. A nervous itch settles in. I don't know her anymore. I don't trust her to not use this against me. "Besides, it's not hard to deduce. There was no one else in your life when you - " She pauses, gaze sinking, teeth working viciously against her bottom lip. "- That person you had to take a chance on, it was Gerard. I'm so glad it all worked out." 

I take a step back, hating the way she looks like a snake about to strike. Hating her for reading me so easily. Hating the power she now holds. Hating myself for being so damn obvious, "Don't do that." 

"I'm not doing anything. And for what it's worth, I'm not going to tell anyone," Ashley turns to leave, stopping to look at me over her shoulder. "I'm starting to record next week. Same rules."

Storming back onto the bus, I rip the laptop lid open, fingers flying over the keyboard. Stormy blue eyes stare back at me for the webpage, the video title putting the album announcement out for everyone to see. The questions start off innocently enough. Ashely's drummer shovers his hand into the interviewer's pockets as the rest giggle. Their chaotic energy makes them personable, allowing fans to feel as if the band is relatable, just weird and dorky like everyone listening.

My name sounds like a curse coming over the speakers. Ashley drops the microphone, her eyes doing dead. In them, I see every dumb mistake I ever made. I see me walking out on her, half admitting the secret relationship I started. I see her begging me to stay. I see me telling her there was nothing left. I see every sleepless night and every harsh word that ever spilled past my lips.

Despite the eruption at the end, Ashley handled herself. The comments depict her as a diva, unwilling to play along with innocent questions. No one understands why she isn't able to talk about things that happened years ago. There's rampant speculation, new theories on what happened between the two of us.

I was young and stupid and scared and I destroyed something beautiful. The hurt in Ashley's eyes, the tears turning them glassy, is like a dagger to the heart. Things could have been so different. I didn't have to destroy her. Sure, she's acting like a brat but she's responding to my actions. She's protecting herself in the only way she knows how. Gerard was right. This tour is an opportunity. I have to fix things. Not just for Ashley. For myself.


	8. Just What to Say

The blank page stares up at me, taunting, daring me to mark up its crisp nakedness. The pen and my brain, typically thick as thieves, have cut off all communications. Guitar chords ring in my ears, the same rhythms repeating to the point of annoyance. None of this feels good enough. None of the ideas that swirl through my head feel like they deserve to make a permanent mark on the world. My soul refuses to be poured, clinging tightly to my ribs. The blood clots too quickly in the cuts, no emotions flowing forth from the bullet holes I put in myself. Tattooed hands flash before my eyes, the feeling of calloused fingers exploring bare flesh sending shivers down my spine; a perfect cupid's bow upper lip curls into a smile, bells of laughter erupting from a hallow chest. 

_So hold me up against the countertop or the back of your closet - We've all got skeletons - And baby you're my favorite one - Seep into my veins like the poison you are - Perfect daydream - My worst nightmare_

Letting my forehead hit my palm, I groan, pushing the notebook off the table. This feels forced. I don't know how I ever sat and wrote a whole album in a night. Tapping into my pain used to be easy, like water pouring from the faucet. I guess my wells run dry.

There's shuffling from the back of the bus, my notebook slid back into my vision, "It's good, Ashley." 

"It's six lines, Bert. Six shitty lines about a shitty human being."

He rolls his eyes, collecting me in his arms as he plops down on the couch. The artist stares down at me, offering a friendly smile, "Some of the best music is written about shitty human beings. Your whole career started because of songs about shitty humans."

"I don't want to write about him. That gives him too much power." 

Bert flips through a few of my failed attempts at writing songs, reading them aloud. As he nears the front of the book, I snap it shut, tucking it under my thigh. There are too many memories I'm not ready to tackle sitting on those pages. Too many false promises and rotting dreams.

"No one but you is going to know it's about him. They'll take your songs and create their own meanings. This process is for you. The songs are for them. Bleed it out. Give it to the world." 

"I need a piano."

The singer grins, patting me on the back, "I think I can manage that. Do you want some coffee with that inspiration?"

"If you're offering, I'm accepting." I blow him a kiss, turning my attention back to the notebook. "Thank you."

The crooked cursive stares up at me from the page, coffee stains and greasy fingerprints littering the edges. The start of another collaboration that ended in explosions. The inked words whisper promises their writer never meant, making declarations of love and adoration. Our voices twined so beautifully together, calloused fingers playing guitar strings in the same fashion they played my heart.

How long can you hold onto sadness before it becomes who you are? Maybe I'm starting to drown in my past, letting it block out the future that's laid out in front of me. Clinging to the happy memories, the could have beens; it's like stabbing myself in the heart over and over. 

Him just being there, the soft concern in his eyes this morning didn't help. Seeing the way Gerard curls around him, watching Frank give Gerard the same loving expression he used to give me; it all makes my head spin. Blissful indifference only works when the person isn't shoving themselves in your face every chance they get. This just hurts, settling into my bones and making itself at home. The clammy chills of the flu cling to me, making me wish I could peel off my own skin. Why does it still feel like it happened yesterday? Why can't I stitch up the wounds and walk away? The answer comes to me in the form a little ache in my heart, an itching at the back of my mind. The realization burns, like a fresh tattoo over sunburned skin. 

Bert sliding an electric keyboard across the tabletop stops the dam from fully breaking, my emotions bursting forth. I feel the familiar itch in my fingers, the nagging in the back of my brain to pick up a pencil and turn it into something productive.

"What, are we writing ballads now?" Andrew wanders to the front of the bus, digging through the cabinets. "Are we out of Pringles?"

"Not ballads, and yes, you ate the last of them a few days ago. Put it on the pickup list." I try my best not to snap back, already lost in a world of my own. The pen works over the page, filling line after line. 

Bert hovers over my shoulder, studying the lyrics, scratching at his chin, "One second you make me think you'll never write another song and now this. You confuse me, Ashley Benson, in the best possible way." 

"Yeah well, undealt with pain will do that to you I guess."

The singer leans forward, pressing his lips sloppily to my cheek, "I'm proud of you. Create magic my little badass. I'll come back later." 

I sit hunched over the notebook, smoking through cigarette after cigarette, the light behind me slowly fading. I write out the words I never got to say, that I was too scared to put into existence. My regrets and questions and fantasies flow out onto the paper. This seems easier, letters to a man who will never read them and probably doesn't care.

The boys move through the bus, quietly whispering amongst themselves. Coffee and food appear before me, being cleared away and replaced without my asking. By the time I put the pen down my hand aches, knuckles screaming at me, ink coloring my fingers. My fingertips pulse, begging to not have to press into another guitar string or hit against another piano key. Rubbing at my wrists, I smile down at the pages. I might just be able to make this work.

These songs will be my wounds ripped wide open for everyone to see. No more sloppy metaphors or diluted symbolism to hide behind. This album doesn't deserve that. I don't deserve that. He'll know. From the first screaming guitar chord, from the first note spilling up my throat; he'll know and I'll have to be okay with that. I need this to finally shut the scabs that incessantly rip themselves open, leaving me a bloody, aching mess. A tiny hope lingers inside my heart, wishing that he won't just know, that a part of him still feels the same. Perhaps we are not so different. Perhaps we are both gluttons for a selfish pain that drives our beautifully twisted rhymes.

~~~~~~~~

He sits, arms crossed over his chest, feet propped up on the opposite couch. He wears a smug smirk; eyes trained straight ahead, not even shifting his gaze as I clear my throat. _Professional_. We're supposed to be acting professional. Swallowing down the part of me that would love to just crawl over the top of him, purposely driving the toe of my shoe into his shin, I clear my throat again. "I need to get through."

"By all means," Frank tugs his legs back, gesturing me through the bus.

I see someone hasn't gotten their boxers in a twist yet this morning. That is if he's wearing any. _Stop it, Ashley._ I wonder how much muffled, soppy bus sex it took to put him in a good enough mood to not immediately start in with the insults. Shaking my head, I try and clear the image from my vision. I shouldn't be thinking about him like that, all sweaty and panting, glowing as he rolls off to the side immediately going for a cigarette. God, I need to get laid. This is just a desperate, sex-deprived mind playing out perverse fantasies. Rubbing fiercly at my eyes, I snub out the memories, tugging the door at the back of the bus open.

Matt, Andrew, and Ryan are already waiting for me, each tinkering with their instruments. The tape-recorder we brought along is hooked up to a set of speakers, my voice floating through the small space. Andrew gently taps his sticks against the drums, trying to pick up some kind of beat to go behind the words. Matt and Ryan sit on the couch lining the back wall, their instruments lying across their laps. My brother has his eyes closed, head lolled back. He's got his own notebook propped open on his knee. 

"Are you sure we can't just leave it like this?" Ryan reaches forward, pausing the tape. "This shit is haunting, Ash."

I sit down in the middle of the group, flipping through my notebooks, trying to find a good starting point. "I don't know too many rock groups that put out a full acoustic album, Ry. Unless you're suggesting a rebrand."

"Did you sleep at all last night?" Matt questions, peeling his eyes open. His fingers work gingerly over his bass, plucking some rythm from the depths of his brain.

Plugging my own guitar into the amp, I fiddle with a few of the settings as I strum, "I don't remember. Uh, I guess this will go a lot like the last album. I'll play out what I've got and everyone can just add on or help tweak it. I'm coming back later today to record some more of the vocals so you'll actually have something to listen to while writing your parts. Uh - "

"What's the vibe of the album? What it's about?" Andrew questions, twirling his drumsticks around his fingers, one of them flying up and hitting him in the forehead.

 _Don't look at the front of the bus. Keep your eyes on the paper, on the guys, anything but that door sitting between you and the only person who gave you enough emotion to put words to paper._ Swallowing, I rub my throat. There's a creak of the floor on the other side of the door, "Pain and healing. Ready?"

Flipping on the microphone, I wait for Matt to fiddle with a few switches on the board sitting in front of me. The little green light flickers on, Matt giving me a thumbs up, "Whenever you're ready."

Letting out a shaky breath, my fingers play over the strings, throbbing with each press. I cound in my head, ticking off each beat. Leaning in, I begin to whisper into the micriphone, lips rubbing against the cold metal,

"You promised." _Two, three, four._ "But you can choke on every word you've ever said. Drown your empty promises in all the blood I've spilled. My curse to you. You're hands will never be wiped clean."

Andrew joins in, picking up a steady beat, fading in and out as my voice rises and falls. Letting the last few chords ring out, I slide my fingers down the neck of the guitar. My lips press up against the mircophone once more, the room going eerily silent.

"You promised."

On the other side of the door there is clapping.

"Ashley, don't," Matt warns, but it's too late.

I yank the door open, first raised, heart hammering in my chest, ready to make its escape. It's one thing for him to be sitting up there. It's another thing to be lurking, to listen in as I pour my soul out. He doesn't get that right. He shouldn't even be in here. Why can't he just follow the damn rules? "I'm giving you ten seconds to get the hell off this bus!"

Mikey jumps backward, holding his hands out in front of him, baby blue eyes wide, "Shit. I'm so sorry. I'm leaving."

"Fuck," I deflate, letting my hands fall to my side with a muffled slap. I need to get my shit together. "I'm sorry Mikey, I thought you were someone else. Sorry."

His giggle floats from the front of the bus, feet hitting the floor as he wanders back. Frank lounges against the bunks, fingers working over his cheeks and chin, "Someone's jumpy today. Everything okay? Not on edge or anything? Need a cigarette break? I think Gerard and Bob are out there. I was going to join them."

"No." My fingers curl into a fist again, knuckles burning with the force. "I'm fine. Sorry again, Mikey."

Gerard's brother slips past Frank, "I shouldn't have been eavesdropping. You sound amazing. Sorry."

Frank gives me a smirk, his thumb shoved between his lips, "You keep acting like that and people are going to think something's up." He tips forward, fingers shaking as he reaches out to brush a few strands of hair away from my face. "Be a shame if they found out before your angry songs spill all the beans."

Smaking his hand away, I take a step back, stumbling as I run into the wall, "Don't you have someone else's life to ruin?"

"Sure," Frank smirks, giving me a nonchalant shrug as he steps out of my space. "But your reactions are cuter."

"Don't start something you can't finish, Frank."

He waggles his eyebrows, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, letting it go painfully slow, "Who says I can't finish this?"

"Frank, you coming out?" Gerard's voice pulls Frank's attention, the guitarist clearing his throat before he offers up a quick be right there.

It's my turn to smirk, crossing my arms over my chest as I push off the wall, "Boyfriends, right, always ruining the moment. Probably shouldn't keep him waiting."

I shut the door on Frank's flustered face. 


	9. Feeling This

All right, so maybe my whole fixing thing plan got derailed. What am I supposed to do when she's standing there with her stupid eyes looking like saucers, eyelashes fluttering so innocently, her bottom lip trembling with rage? I'm just a man, after all. It's just too much of a fucking rush, my heart threatening to break through my chest, each breath hitching in my throat. I mean, damn, Gerard does it for me, but nothing like that. Ashley's like some twisted witch that's got me tangled up in her web. Every time I think I'm out, I find a new little shimmering strand.

All this gets forgotten the second Gerard drags me around the side of the bus. He slams me up against the hard surface, my shirt dragging up, metal digging into my back. Hungry lips trail over my collarbone, tongue sliding up over my neck and jaw. I drink him in, coffee and cigarettes, and spearmint gum. Our lips work fiercely against each other, Gerard's fingers tangling in my hair, a hand snaking up under my shirt and around my neck, pulling me to him. He lets out a guttural moan as I manage to pop the button on his jeans, wiggling my fingers down the front of his pants. As skin brushes skin, he jerks away, knocking into the front of the bus parked behind us. Gerard pants, brushing the hair out of his face as he stares me down, a lopsided grin tugging up the corners of his swollen lips.

Well, shit. Clearing my throat, I straight out my shirt, blinking against the little spots of light that dance before my eyes. This is new. Whatever possessed Gerard to do this, I hope it hangs around awhile. Usually, I'm the aggressor, making all the first moves and initiating even the tiniest touches. To have the roles reversed...my head is still spinning. 

"Wow."

Gerard chuckles, coming to stand next to me, pulling me close to his chest. He presses his lips to my nose, my cheeks, my neck. Once again he laughs as I whimper, trying to get his lips to reconnect with mine, "I missed you."

"I'm going to have to be a few minutes late to all our smoke breaks if that's how you're gonna great me."

The singer hums into my neck, his fingers lacing between mine, "Starting tonight, we'll be in hotels for a little."

"Oh really?" I raise an eyebrow, trying to play it off as if I've not been looking forward to this since tour started.

Sure, the bus is fine. I'm small enough to completely stretch out in the bunks. Living in a van with the guys for almost a year means nothing is sacred anymore. We've been through all the awkward moments. The bus even has a shower. The hotels mean alone time. Quiet. Time for Gerard and I to be together without worrying about someone walking in or having to look Mikey in the eyes the next morning. The kids cool with everything, but I am screwing his brother. That's not something you ever completely get used to.

~~~~~

Salty sweat coats my tongue. Gerard tugs at my dripping hair, pulling me close as he tilts into me. There's a glint in his eyes, nose rubbing at my cheek. His lips hover over mine, tongue flicking out. And then, just like that, he winks, ruffling my hair before gently pushing me away. Spinning, I rub my forehead down over his neck, letting it linger against his shoulder for a second before returning to my microphone. The crowd eats it up, cheering wildly before joining us in singing the chorus. My heart soars, beating in time with Bob's drumming. I am alive.

The second the room door shuts behind us we're on each other, ripping off sweaty clothes, desperate to feel skin against skin. Gerard's body bounces against the sheets, chest heaving as he pants. I stand over him, admiring the way the moonlight shines on his slick skin. Damp hair clings to his forehead, shielding his eyes from view. I dust my fingertips over his hip, trailing up over his stomach. Gerard lets out a soft moan, puffy lips parting. For a second, I hover over him, watching the lust cloud his eyes. His hand comes up to cup the back of my head, pushing me down on top of him.

We devour each other. 

"Want to join me in the shower?" Gerard curls in close to me, his leg tangling between mine as his fingers ghost over my chest.

Catching his hand, I press my lips to each knuckle, drawing a heart with my tongue against his wrist, "I need a smoke. Wait for me?"

"I'm all gross," Gerard whines. "I'll be waiting in bed for you though." He waggles his eyebrows, causing us both to laugh.

Groaning, I roll off the bed, tugging on pajama pants, "You trying to wear me out of something?"

"Or something."

I love being that close to Gerard; tucked up in each other, his heartbeat creating sweet rhythms under my touch, it's like being called home. We meld together, bodies fitting perfectly. Every doubt and worry melts away with him pressed up against me. Hand in hand we can concur anything life throws at us.

Drunken laughter floats through the parking lot, voices rising above a song playing from one of the buses. Some roadies must be taking advantage of their first night out of their bunks. Two silhouettes dancing in the floodlight, a bottle held up in the air. They fall into one another, swaying as they try and steady each other.

Lighting a cigarette, I lean against the fence separating the hotel parking lot from the highway. My eyes stay trained on the couple dancing. They're wrapped around each other, the taller one leaning down to capture the shorter one in a kiss. Smiling, I remember the summer I moved into my own place. Gerard and I spent days setting up the small apartment, dancing between boxes. He ordered takeout and set up his laptop for us to watch movies. It was like living in our own little world. We fell so in love, surrounded by my shitty couch and half broken-down cardboard boxes. It was easy, hiding our budding romance from the world. It must feel nice to live in that blissful feeling of falling, to not have to worry about public perceptions and judgment. 

The longer I watch, the more familiar the figures seem. The shorter one is a girl. Her hair flies out around her as she dances along to the radio, singing loudly. The other is a guy and seemingly sober or at least better at holding his liquor. As the girl spins again, throwing her head back, I see it; the wing of a phoenix. The colors catch the light, my eyes settling on a slew of other tattoos littering her bare legs. Ashley. The man leans forward to steady her, bringing his face into the light. Fucking Bert.

Anger swells up inside.

"Ash?"

She giggles, spinning on the heel of her Converse, hand shooting out to steady herself against the fence, "Frank?"

"Don't man," Bert cautions, taking a step towards the singer.

Ashley looks back at Bert, waving him away with a slosh of the bottle she's holding, "It's okay -" she whips back around to look at me, hair hanging in her face. "He's just a kitten. He won't do anything, will you, Frankie? You're not here to hurt me."

I wait until Bert disappears inside before wandering over, motioning for Ashley to sit down next to me, "What're you doing out here?"

"Dancing. I love dancing," she leans her head on my shoulder, taking a long drink from the bottle. "We used to dance, Frank. Do you remember?"

Pulling out a cigarette, I light it, handing it over to Ashley. She drops it, frown lines creasing her forehead. After a battle to keep her hair out of her face, she's able to pick it back up, sliding it between her lips.

"I do."

"Why are you naked?"

I swallow down a snort of laughter, "I'm not naked." I tug at the leg of my pajama pants. "I just came out for a smoke. Gerard - "

"Oh. Right." Ashley's face falls, some of the light draining out of her. She rubs at her eyes, spearing eyeliner down her cheek. "You should get back. I'm fine out here."

Ashing my cigarette, I hold it up for Ashley to see, "Not done smoking. He's in the shower anyway. I've got a solid thirty minute."

I'll never admit it out loud, but I'm enjoying this. For the first time on tour, our interaction is normal. There is no forced niceties or hateful comments. It's just us. Ashley and Frank. Two friends. The way it used to be. I mean, I'd typically be as drunk as she is, but still, normal. Her head stays glued to my shoulder, hand resting on my knee. She drums her fingers against my leg in time with the music playing, humming as she smokes. Still carrying around the head high from sex, the touch sends sparks running through my body.

"Frank," Ashley starts, staring off across the parking lot, teeth working at the inside of her cheek. Her toe taps against the asphalt, shoelaces jumping. "I - treat him better. Please. All our shit aside, he's a good guy. The _best_ guy. Give him what you couldn't give me."

Nodding, I stub out my cigarette, patting her head, "I will. I'm sorry I couldn't give you that."

The guilt starts to settle in, flooding out from the base of my chest, leaking into my bloodstream.

"Don't. I don't want an apology I won't remember in the morning. I just want you to be better."

"I'm trying." I almost tack on an _I promise_ but bite it back. My promises don't mean anything to her anymore. I made damn sure of that. "I'm trying."

Ashley shrugs, using the fence to pull herself to her feet. She sways forward and then manages to steady herself. "Trying and doing are two different things."


	10. Hungover and I Miss You

"If you move again, I'll kill you," I grumble, pulling a pillow over my head to block out the light assaulting my eyes. My head pounds, the darkness behind my eyelids pulsing, the slightest movement sends my body spinning. The inside of my mouth feels like I took a cheese grater to it, tongue like sandpaper against the torn skin. 

Bert laughs, something sloshes somewhere to my right or maybe it's my left. I don't even remember coming back inside the hotel. Bert and I went to fetch more alcohol from the bus. I didn't think we even made it downstairs. My knee throb, protesting the contact with the sheets. I definitely fell, but my memory on how or when is completely wiped.

"Wait till your brother sees you. He'll cart your ass home so fast."

"Fuck you," I pry my arm off the mattress, swinging it around in hopes of making contact with Bert. The sudden movement causes my stomach to flip, forcing me to give up my attempted assault. "Wrong sibling. I was addicted to heroin. Matt is the alcoholic. He's not going to do anything."

"One addiction fading into another or whatever AA philosophical bullshit he likes to spout," Bert chuckles, forcing something that feels like a plastic bottle into my hand. "I promise it's water. I ordered toast and pancakes and waffles. Carbs will help." 

"Don't talk about food. I'll hurl."

"Better out than in." Cold fingers take hold of my leg, poking at my knee. I fight the urge to jerk it away, knowing that will only make the rolling in my stomach worse. "I'm going to find some ice for this. You hit that step harder than I thought. Drink that water."

"Bert," Reaching out, I manage to catch his wrist. "Did we - " 

"Fuck? Yeah."

"Sorry."

The pressure releases from the mattress, Bert shuffling across the room, "I don't mind, Ash. It's not like we're in love or anything. You can pretend I'm whoever you need."

"It's not fair to you."

Even though I can't see him, I know he's shrugging. Bert's never cared about the technicals of it all, "It's not fair to you either, but that's life, right?"

I lay still until I hear the door click shut. Forcing my eyes open, I drag in mouthfuls of air. Letting the breath out slowly through my nose, I flop over onto my back. I stare up at the ceiling, waiting for it to stop swaying back and froth before dragging myself up into a sitting position. For a few agonizing seconds, I'm certain I'm going to empty last night's partying and my guilt about Bert onto the bed. Shoving my head between my knees, I slam my eyes shut, taking in deep breaths to the count of four. Four in. Four out. Again. Again. My stomach settles.

At the very beginning of whatever this is I'm doing with Bert, he brought up that I only have sex with him while drunk. I promised to stop. To stop projecting feelings onto him. To stop using him as a crutch. To not have to forget in the morning. It worked until it didn't. Until my past got shoved back in my face. Bert deserves better.

Shaking fingers work to twist off the water bottle cap. Plastic hits against chapped lips. _Sit up. Tip the bottle back._ Get rid of the dry, sticky feeling. I coach myself through each movement, trying to keep them slow and fluid. _Don't jerk your head. Don't look at anything. Bottle to lips. Water to mouth. Swallow. Small sips._ I pull the water through my teeth, swishing it around. I get through three rounds of my routine before there is a knock on the door.

"Room service."

"Just leave it at the door," I manage back, my voice cracking, vision beginning to swim again.

There's no way I can get through soundcheck. I'm going to have to cancel our recording session today. How could I be so stupid? I told Bert one beer. Why did I think it was a good idea to drink so much? I don't even know if I'll feel good enough to do the show tonight. God. I never wanted to be the band that cancels shows because I was too hungover to go on. How did I use to do shows when I was stoned all the time? I don't understand how anyone could want to feel this all the time. How did Matt wake up to this every morning? I guess you never get hungover if you don't ever really stop drinking. 

The door swings open. Bert balances the breakfast tray against his hip, a plastic bag full of ice held in the other hand. He sets the tray down on the dresser, sitting on the edge of the bed. Bert presses the ice to my knee, attempting to tie it in place with a shirt.

"Good enough. Wanna try a piece of toast? I'll only judge you forever if you throw it back up."

"Oh, well, in that case, hand it over."

Bert sets the plate full of bread in between my legs, "Fall Out Boy is joining the tour tonight."

"My muffin!" I exclaim through a mouthful of bread, the words coming out more along the lines of _hm fuffin._

Patrick was really the first person to truly see the vision behind what I was trying to accomplish with Claim of the Broken. He took us on our first countrywide tour. For Andrew and Ryan, it was their first time ever being out of New Jersey. We were all such babies, excited by the idea of moving from basement bars to arenas. All the guys in Fall Out Boy are angels. They put up with our shenanigans, couching u through tour life and how to perform in front of more than twelve people. Patrick helped me get into rehab, gently holding my hand through the whole process. he even answered the phone the day I got out, something I was certain would never happen. I'm excited to see them all again.

Like Bert predicted, the food and water help settle my stomach. A few Advil, Bert counts them out, hiding the bottle away in his things, quiets my pounding head. By the time my brother comes around to collect me, I feel almost human again. 

The elevator door opens to a short man wearing a striped fedora. His leather jacket sleeves hang down over his fingers, flapping around as he talks. Containing my squeal of excitement, I launch myself onto the unsuspecting man's back, "Muffin!" 

"My cheesesteak!" Patrick lets out a delighted giggle, barely letting me touch my feet to the floor before encasing me in a hug. "I've been looking forward to this day my whole life."

"I can't belive you two are still using those stupid as fuck nicknames," Pete pouts from his spot against the check in dest.

Grinning, I bound over to him, forcing him into a hug, "There's my grumpy bear."

For a few seconds he stand stiff in my arms, refusing to accept the hug. Eventually, he give in, shoving his face into my neck, arms wrapping tightly around my waist, "You smell like a bathroom floor."

"I missed you too, Pete."

He rolls hsi eyes, giving me the dustings of a smile. Coming from Pete that's a pretty big deal. Usually the only people that can get a full-blown smile out of him are Patrick and Mikey. Even they have to resort to briding at times.

"Where's everyone else?"

"Still getting stuff off the bus. We just go in," Patrick explains, already inching closer to my brother.

I'm sure they'll disappear later to catch up which is really just codeword for talking about how I'm doing. Patrick will never just outright ask me about that time of my life. He'll allude to it sure, skirting around the issue to get little bits of information he can ask Matt about later. I despise their little meetings. Sure, I've had some issues, but I'm a big girl. I lived through it. Whatever they need to say can be sait to my face. Being talked about behind my back just makes me feel like a chile.

The elevator dings, Ryan and Andrew spilling out. They spring apart, stricking various ridiculous poses as they make their way through the lobby. Ryan throws his arm out, Andrew jerking any nearby limb away. As Ryan gorws closer, he digs something out of his pocket. Andrew lunges, knocing his hand against Ryan's shoulder.

The guitarist sighs, shaking his head before sliding something in my back pocket, "Bert said you left it in his room. Did you two sleep together?"

"I don't kiss and tell," I answer back with a wink.

Matt slings his arm over Ryan's shoulder, tugging Andrew into the conversation, "Everyone ready to go? We've got early soundcheck and then Gerard's letting us use the bus studio. Ashley, have you been working on a title for the album? Richard wants us to release that soon, maybe with some cover art."

"I'm thinking something like New Jersey called, they want their asshole back or rot in hell, fucker."

I've not thought up a title of any kind of art for the album. It's been the farthest thing from my mind. I'm still trying to muddle through the mess of lyrics I've written to pull out a few more stongs. Typically, I let Matt hadle artwork and titles. All I ever wanted to do was make music. All the extra stuff that comes with it just seems like busy work. He could slap a number on each song for all I care. It Isn't about the title or whatever's on the front cover. If I've done my job properly, the songs will speak for themselves.

Ryan and Andrew snicker, each receiving a dirty look from my older brother who looks less than amused. He slides the backpack he's toting off his arm, digging around inside. A heavy camera is shoved inot my chest, "Maybe go around today, take some pictures. We'll see if any of them might work. I'll look through some of the older photos on my computer when I get the chance. Richard wants this thing out no later than a month after tour."

"Tell Richard we'll get him is paycheck. We've not let him down yet."

Richard is our point of contact at the record label. He handles all the negotiations and paperwork. He presents our albums to the higher ups. While not necessarily a bad guy, he's all about the bottom line; how quickly can we do this or that. I don't think he has any clue what actually goes into writing and recording new music. We hand him the finished product and he does the rest. He's never even come to a recording session or seen us play live.

About a year ago, when everyone started to actually have their shit together, we thought about switching labels. With nothing new to bring to the table and our history of dropping off the face of the planet for months on end, no label was willing to sign us. We ened us stuck in another contract. Sure, our current label is understanding and willing to work with us, but it feel impersonal and more lie we're just there to make them money. I don't think any of us are truly happy with the situation.

On the side, Andrew has been starting up his own label. He's talked about bringing me into it as a partner or something a few times. He just wants to get everything stable. One day we'll sign onto his label and leave the Richard's of the world behind. 


	11. Love It If We Made It

Gerard is antsy. Not in the typical preshow way, either. The biting your nails, tearing out your hair, can't sit still for even a second antsy. I watch him pace back and forth through the hallway, hands beating against his thighs, throwing in little jumps between each trip. A stagehand gives us our one-minute, herding us closer to the door blocking us from side stage. Mikey goes down the line of people waiting, giving each a high five. He misses our sound tech, smiling to himself. Mikey's preshow rituals don't really make much sense to me, but they seem to help calm his nerves. As long as he misses one hand in the row he's certain the show will go smoothly. Sometimes I make him miss on purpose, tugging my hand away a second too early or holding it at a weird angle. Whatever helps I guess. 

As the crowd roars Gerard squeezes my hand, giving me a quick kiss on the head. He hovers on my side of the stage through the show, singing in my direction. I get a warm, safe feeling every time we make eye contact. He'll smile and wink before whipping back around to face the fans. I wonder what set him off earlier. Gerard doesn't usually get nervous before shows, at least not like that.

Wandering to center stage, a hand runs up my back, Gerard rubbing his head against my shoulder. I lean into the touch, spinning away as Gerard dances back toward the mic stand. I stare at him, watching as he screams into the microphone, shoving it back in its holder. Gerard grins over at me, striding across the stage. He waggles his fingers at me and I can't help but roll my eyes. His theatrics never get old. I could watch him prance around on stage for the rest of my life and be perfectly content.

The drums pick up, Ray's guitar ringing out. Gerard stops in front of me, staring me down. His fingers tangle in my hair, my body squished up against his. As his lips find mine, I drop the guitar, digging my nails into his arm to try and get him as close to me as possible. I hear nothing but my heartbeat, feel nothing but his fingers tangled in my hair, holding him close to me, his lips working perfectly against mine. I wish I could freeze time and live in this moment forever.

All too quickly, Gerard pulls away, giving me a dorky smile and a gentle shove. I'm sure I'm grinning like an idiot but I can't help it. That man is everything to me. I now understand why he was so nervous before coming on stage. That was him telling me he wants us. He's ready for all of this, all in on what we've kept secret for so long. That's Gerard's answer to the question that keeps burning in the back of my brain. It's us, just us, forever.

"If you two keep kissing like that, everyone's gonna figure out its not just part of the show," Ray remarks later at the hotel, towel drying his hair.

Gerard smirks, burrowing his head deeper into my side. It's nice to be able to cuddle without having to worry one of us is going to spill off the couch. It'll be a damn shame when we have to start living in the bus full-time again. I enjoy our little secret rendezvous and getting to sleep next to each other skin to skin.

"Naw. It's to promote anti-homophobia. They all know that." 

"Yeah, because there are so many homophobes showing up at our shows," Mikey rebuts, rolling his eyes as he drags another piece of pizza from the box. 

My boyfriend, I'm pretty sure it's safe to start calling him that, at least to myself, give his younger brother the bird, "You know the press is gonna pick it up. They eat shit like this up."

"But you aren't doing it for the press, you're doing it cause you're in love," Bob sings out the last word, fluttering his eyelashes and making kissy faces.

"Fuck off, Bryar," I toss a spare pillow in his direction, "You're just upset because the only person you can ever get to sleep with you is your hand."

The next few weeks fly by. Gerard and I begin to map out our European vacation, picking out the cabin we'll be staying in and planning out little day trips. Joy bubbles up inside of me as I realize this dream I've had of being together and experiencing life as a couple is actually going to happen. We go out and explore the towns we're playing, dancing, and laughing our way through comic book stores and coffee shops and diners. Gerard holds my hand and gives me secret kisses, falling into bed next to me every night. The pill bottle is forgotten, left to collect dust in the bottom of my backpack.

Like they say though, all good things must come to an end. After three weeks of near perfection, Gerard sends our world up in flames. His friend Lindsey is coming to visit us on tour. She'll be joining us at our Florida stop and traveling back up the east coast with us.

I force myself to be happy that he's reconnecting with people, that he has friends outside the band. The smiles and encouraging words feel like blades against my skin. They don't even really know each other. Gerard met her during his worst time, too drunk to even remember the introduction the next morning. Why now? Everything was starting to go so well. We were falling into perfect step, Gerard finally seeing that we could be together with no judgment. The worst part is, the whole band supports this. I can't even voice my concerns without sounding like a shitty person.

Gerard grows distant, often lost in his phone or disappearing for hours. I pine for his attention, setting up special little dates or surprises. It works. For a day or two, we're connected again, like absolutely nothing has changed. Then a switch will flip and it's like I only exist at night when he needs a warm body to help him through the lonely hours.

We talk less about our vacation and more about sleeping arrangements and cleaning the bus for Lindsey's arrival. That little orange bottle and I become close companions again. It hurts less when all I have to do is be the vessel that moves a foggy brain around. The only times I ever want to be present are those when Gerard will look over at me with that familiar sparkle in his eyes. For a few brief seconds, it feels like things will be okay. 

As Gerard drifts further away, I throw myself into the effort of trying to win Ashley back as a friend. It becomes a routine to have a cigarette together, one in the morning and one at night. We don't usually speak; exchanging some nods and shrugs to answer unasked questions. Sometimes she'll offer me a stick of gum. Sometimes I bring her a coffee. Little ways for each to tell the other it's okay. That maybe one day we'll be able to look at each other and not feel like our whole world is going to shatter.

That little bubble of hope inside of me grows anytime she doesn't scamper off the second I enter a room. Sometimes I sit up at night, struggling to find a way to voice how much it eats away at me that I hurt her. Everything I come up with seems wrong, not enough to fix what I broke. There's still sadness in her eyes, dozens of misspoken words and broken promises riddling the battlefield that sits between us. I long to take the sadness away. 

"What happened to your head?" Ashley questions one night after a show.

We sit in the parking lot outside of her bus. The blanket I brought sits draped over one of her legs, the other side pulled up to my waist, my hand buried under it. Our breath hangs heavy in the cool November air. I'm beginning to miss the rain of the west coast. At least there it was warm, the air not biting into my bones the second I walked off the bus. The cold is made worse by the oozing gash in my head, the blood freezing over the wound, and matting in my eyebrow. Every time I move my face the cut rips open, a new wave of pain washing over me. I probably should've let the paramedics take care of it. At the time it didn't seem too bad though, my after-show adrenaline numbing any feeling.

Chuckling, I take a sip of coffee, offering the mug to Ashley. To my surprise, she takes it, "I'm an idiot."

"That's been established," Ashley smiles back, her eyes lighting up as her nose crinkles. She readjusts her hat down over her ears, hugging herself to keep out the cold. "What kind of idiocy led to the cut?"

We've moved closer together, the blanket now covering us both comfortably, our shoulders knocking together as we smoke. I try and ignore the little jolts of electricity that course through me every time the wind picks up, throwing Ashley's hair in my face. "Took a dive into an amp."

"Looks like that amp won."

I stick my tongue out at the singer, "That's been established."

Despite the shivers now making it impossible to sit still, I'd stay out here all night with her. Anything to be in this little slice of normalcy for just a moment longer. Sitting out in the dark, while everyone else is sleeping allows some of the walls to come down. There's less fear, less hatred. Being so exhausted from a show means neither of us has the energy to shoot snarky comments back and forth. For the few minutes it takes us to smoke we're just able to exist. She's able to let me in a little.

As Ashley lights another cigarette there is a part of me that wants to believe she feels the same. That after all these years of avoiding each other and fighting, she just wants to lay things to rest, "Gerard told me Lindsey is going to be meeting up with you guys at the next show."

"Yeah."

"You know why?"

I shrug. I hate talking about this. When asked, Gerard gives me cryptic answers or shrugs it off as if the whole thing is no big deal. I don't think he understands that his actions leave me with billions of questions, confusion about where we stand, and what our future looks like. It's not every day he asks someone to come out and be on tour with us. None of his other friends have been along for more than a show or two. Now this girl, who he barely knows, is coming along on tour for a whole month. It just doesn't make sense.

"I guess she reached out to him to say happy birthday. They've been talking back and forth a little since then. Gerard said she liked the new album and wanted to come see us play a few shows. I guess that turned into her joining us on tour."

"Does she know about you two?"

"I'm not sure if he's told her."

Ashley gives me a sympathetic smile, "It's all new to him. Maybe he just wants to tell her in person. Maybe for him, showing is better than telling."

I know she's just trying to make me feel better, but the words just hurt. I've felt like a secret for so long and just when it seemed like that wouldn't be the case anymore this gets thrown at me. I don't want to have to keep tiptoeing around the subject and wondering what mood Gerard will be in that day. I just want to be; together, us.

"He didn't seem to have a hard time telling people when he was with Bert." 

"Frank, he was coked up through that whole relationship. Even then he couldn't flat out tell people they were dating. He'd get all giggly and try to change the subject. Gerard's never been comfortable with his sexuality. You knew that."

"At least when they were dating he'd kiss him in public," I grumble back, throwing my cigarette butt out into the empty parking lot.

"Don't paint yourself as the fucking victim here. You've known Gerard for years now. You know how he is. You knew what you were signing up for when you two got together. Don't act like his behavior is some kind of big surprise to you," Ashley stands, tossing the blanket back at me. "And just when I was starting to think you could care about someone other than yourself. You should be happy for Gerard, that he's making friends, letting people in. You're so fucking pathetic."

The bus door slams, echoing out into the silence.


	12. Supposed to Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning:   
> There are mentions of suicide and drug/alcohol usage in this chapter. The chapter is set up in an interview format going through the history of Claim of the Broken. You can skip it an not really miss any plot points.   
> If you still want to read it, I have set off the parts that may be triggering with "***" you can just skip down till you see another "***".   
> As always, I love you all very much, my readers mean the world to me.   
> I hope you enjoy :)

"So, like most New Jersey bands, we started out on Eyeball Records. Back then they'd pretty much put out any shit you gave them. The album was bad and we all knew it was bad, but we wanted it out there. It had no direction, none of the songs went together. I think the first review of it wrote us off as another whiny band from New Jersey and told people not to waste their money.

Funny thing is, everyone wanted another whiny band from New Jersey. We were happily riding the wave created by bands like Thursday. Within a week of the album coming out, we were on tour. I think that's when we really started to want to be serious."

When Tom Griffin, the first-ever interviewer to really stand behind us, called up and said he wanted to do a tell-all interview to promote the new album I knew we had to do it. If anyone was going to understand the direction our band is going it will be him. There will be no stupid questions. He will let us tell the story. We will get to explain how we started out on the dirty streets of New Jersey with nothing and fought our way up. 

Everyone else agreed, excited to get to finally take back the headlines and squash some of the worst rumors. We've taken our day off to sit in a hotel room and finally clear the air. If Claim of the Broken is going to plow on, we need to do this.

"Do you guys still play songs from that record or do you prefer to just kind of sweep it under the rug?"

The guys let me take the lead on the questions, piping up here and there to tell a funny story or add in their own opinions. Despite it being a group effort, the band knows this album is for me. The story of how we started is largely based around Matt and me. Ryan and Andrew allow us to tell the story how we need to. Matt defers to me, insisting the band would have never gotten off the ground if I hadn't pushed.

None of us really had any goals, nowhere to be and no one to answer to. Making music gave us direction, a purpose. Even with the shitty first album, I just had a feeling. I kind of drug the others along with me because I couldn't play all the parts. Plus, doing things with our family and friends is way more fun than doing it alone.

"The thing about our first album, _I'm Just Here for the Free Booze_ , is that, at the time, it was exactly what all of us needed. My brothers and I fell on some pretty hard times. We were living out of a van, sleeping on people's couches. Ron, my younger brother, and I were really into pills at the time. That whole album was written on the back of napkins or on the walls of our car. It was how I was coping with addiction and homelessness. I'll still play the bigger songs, the ones people seemed to like or I thought were good. Songs like _A Thousand Sunsets_ or _Down the Drain_ , songs the kids seem to still want to hear and enjoy." 

**"***"**

Tom nods, scribbling down a few notes and whispering little messages to himself in the recorder, "Now, you said you and your brother were into pills, when did the heroine start?"

"That started on our second tour. We had to come home during the winter because we had no money. We all got jobs to try and raise enough to go back out for the summer. Eyeball is great because they'll put out anything you want and send you on tour whenever, but because of that, they don't have a lot of money to throw at the bands they sign.

We had to pay for everything while on tour. I got a job at this sketchy adult bookstore. The guy I worked with was heavy into the stuff and when he noticed I was downing like half a bottle of Xanax a day, he suggested it. I was seventeen maybe, I figured if it would get me high like the pills, I'd try it. I got hooked really fast, from day one. I think Ron was on it months before that, but I don't really know."

**"***"**

Matt gives my shoulder a squeeze. Talking about the addiction doesn't really bother me; it's part of who I am. The part that gets difficult is talking about Ronnie. He's an integral part of the band getting started and was ripped away from it way too soon.

**"***"**

"Right there with Ron and Ashley's addiction, I was very quickly falling into alcoholism," Matt jumps in. His struggle with alcohol plays an equally important role in our early downfall. "Mostly it started because beer was what we could afford, it was what everyone had at their house. Beer and fucking cold cans of Chef Boyardee or uncooked ramen. It then became a way to cope with everything. One little thing would go wrong in my day like someone would look at me funny, and I'd need to get wasted. I was going through anything with an alcohol content like it was water."

**"***"**

"I'm assuming between all of this you guys got the money you needed for tour because that summer was when you met Fall Out Boy, right?"

Fall Out Boy changed our lives. We went from a basically unknown band playing in basements and backyards to playing in front of fifty to a hundred people a night. They saw something in our rundown instruments and our gotta make it happen spirit that drew them in. The guys in Fall Out Boy taught us how to write, how to make songs that fit together. We learned a lot on that tour. It was instrumental in being able to put out our second record and ultimately get signed to a major label.

"Yeah. We gathered up enough money to do seven shows. Two in Jersey. Two in New York. One in Connecticut. Two in Chicago." I tick them off on my fingers, making sure I'm getting the count right. "Patrick came to that first Chicago show we did. He talked to us after, said he enjoyed some of the stuff we had. The next night all the guys were there. They invited us to stay at their place. The next morning before we left they asked if we wanted to go on tour with them."

"It was _the_ single greatest day of my life," Ryan smiles, reaching around me to fish a few gummy worms out of his backpack. "We were going to get to go on tour and Andrew was joining the band."

Tom grins, accepting the bag of candy Ryan offers him, "How did that happen? Was Andrew a friend? I know Ron played drums for your first album. Was he not able to go with you?"

"Andrew was a friend. We knew him in high school. When the band first started he was in college and that seemed to be really working out for him. Plus, I didn't want it to be Matt and me in a band, and Ron just kind of doing his own thing. We took the only instrument he kind of knew how to play and gave it to him.

**"***"**

When Fall Out Boy asked us on tour, Ron was supposed to come with us. It was a week before we were set to leave and he ended up getting arrested, overdosing in the back of the cop car, and had to go through a state-mandated rehab program. Matt knew Andrew just dropped out of college and called him up."

**"***"**

Andrew laughs, "I learned all the songs on the way up to Chicago. I'd just sit in the back of our van with these big headphones on and beat on the seats until the stuffing started coming out of them. The first show we played live was the first time I'd ever played any Claim of the Broken stuff on a real set. The kit wasn't even mine. Mike, their drummer before Andy joined, was nice enough to let me use his. We couldn't fit a drum kit in the van."

"That tour taught us a lot," I add on. "Ryan and I started a weird, incredibly rocky relationship. We were constantly on and off. Some nights we'd go on stage a couple and then break up the second we walked off. It wasn't healthy. Nothing we did back then was healthy. Matt was so drunk one night that he tipped off the stage mid-song. We had to play the rest of the set down a guitar.

We wrote our second album on that tour though. Patrick helped a lot with that. He let us use all their equipment so we could hear what we would sound like with better gear. You can definitely hear his influence in songs like _Night Terrors_ and _Nine-Ten to Harlem_. They're a little more theatrical and showy than the rest. It was really good for me though. I grew a lot as a lyricist on that tour."

"And then you came home," Tom knows the next part of the story and I can see in the way the skin around his chocolate eyes creases that he's trying to be sensitive.

"And then we came home. That was the worst three months of my life." The guys all reach out, pulling me into a group hug. Ryan keeps his hand in mine, my brother's arms wrapped tightly around me as I retell the story that changed everything.

"So while we were out on tour, our grandfather died. He was this brilliant jazz producer out in California and basically left everything to Ron, Matt, and I. We got back to Jersey, staid about two weeks to finish up a few things and then we headed out to California to join Ron.

We all went to California thinking Ron would be better. He's gotten out of the rehab program, moved into our grandfather's house, taken up surfing...from the way he sounded on the phone, I guess, he just sounded better. Honestly, for a while, he was. We got a solid six or seven months of really amazing memories; Frank came out and we recorded together, we were planning out the second album with Ron as our drummer again. And then it all fell apart. 

**"***"**

The rehab and the months of being clean cleared out his system enough that when he went back it was just too much. He overdosed. We found him in the basement studio. Matt and I wrote _Lost in Muddy Waters_ that night. Patrick and Pete came out for the funeral. They stayed at the house. It's what we needed. I think that if they hadn't been there, we would have all fallen apart."

**"***"**

Tom gives me an encouraging smile, apologizing for having to dredge up those old memories, "Is that when rock bottom happened for you?" 

"No."

The room goes eerily silent, all eyes on me. The only person who truly knows the whole story is Matt. Ryan and Andrew only know bits and pieces brought out through interviews or various lyrics. I shut everyone out, fading into myself. Ron died, we were still shit broke, and Frank just walked out of my life. Everything was falling apart. I held on just long enough to finish writing and recording the new album. After that, I spent most days holed up in my room under a blanket. **"***"** The second I felt my high starting to slip; I'd shoot up again. I was on a path of self-destruction, dead set on completely ripping myself from the world. Nothing mattered. 

"We finished writing the record and recorded it. The recording took about two weeks. Thankfully, because our grandpa had a recording studio in the basement, it practically cost us nothing. A week after the record came out, I ended up overdosing. **"***"** I checked myself into the inpatient treatment facility at the hospital. I was there for a month and then we went out on tour. 

It was us, The Used, and someone else. I honestly can't remember who. Bert and I became fast friends. We spent every second of that tour together. I started using again. By the end of the tour, Bert liked us so much that he introduced us to his producer. They didn't have a spot for a new band on that label, but they referred us to someone else. 

If you look at my signature on that first contract it's - well, it's not even my signature. Andrew signed for me. I wasn't even there. I was so far into the desperation that is depression that I couldn't function. They had to drag me on stage every night and kind of just prop me up. Those last few shows on that tour were shit. I wish I could find those kids and give them their money back. **"***"** See, the first time I ODed was honestly an accident. The second time, I wanted to die. I did it on purpose." **"***"**

"What ultimately got you clean?"

Matt takes over, allowing me to gt up and clean my face. There are tear streaks cutting through my makeup, mascara and eyeliner ringing my damp eyes.

"The label told us if we didn't clean up our act they'd just rip up the contract. They liked us and wanted to see us succeed, but we were a big risk. They helped pay for me to get into a decent facility. Andrew was the only one of us that didn't have to go. he's never touched drugs in his life. He kept us on the straight and narrow after we all got out. 

I think Patrick helped out Ashley a lot. She went into treatment after I left. I know he helped her get into a facility and check herself in. She needed that. I'm not sure any of us would have actually gone on our own. Ashley wrote our third album, _Letters from the End of the World_ , in rehab."

"It seems that falling off the face of the earth really helped you guys, though. Not only with your own demons, but it made you mysterious. Here was this brand new band who put out two albums, went on tour for less than a year combined, and then _poof_ gone. It made people curious."

"Yes, it did, which is incredibly lucky because, for most bands, that would've been the end." I laugh, retaking my seat between my brother and Ryan. "Our label did an amazing job of pushing our second album, utilizing tiny scraps of content we'd give them, and really building the hype for our third album."

"That must've been an incredible amount of pressure."

I nod, "It was, but honestly we needed it. Up until that point we had just kind of coasted along, riding the wave of being a gritty band from Jersey. The pressure really allowed us to open up and define who we wanted to be."

Tom readjusts in his seat, scooting the recorder a little closer to us, "Now you're back, clean and sober, recording your fourth studio album. What can people expect?" 

"This new album, _From the Ashes_ , is about healing. It's about the fall out of relationships and what it's like to have to kind of relearn who you are. The crazy thing about any type of addiction is it becomes so much of who you are as a person that once you get clean you really start with a blank slate. You have to relearn how to live, who your friends are. Matt learned to play bass during his worst point with alcohol and had to completely relearn it after getting sober. He didn't know how to play while not drunk. 

This album is kind of a callback to our roots and shows that relearning process. Some of the songs are very whiny and gritty; very punk-inspired. Others fall more in line with the rock direction we decided to take in our second and third albums. Andrew does some screaming on a track, which is really rad. This album is about who we were and where we are now, and ultimately who we want to be in the future. It's about rising out of the ashes of a past life as something new and full of life." 

Tom smiles, rising so that he's able to give us all a hug, "I'm so looking forward to hearing it. Be sure to check out Claim of the Broken's first sing, _Broken Down in Lonelyville_ out now." 


	13. A Part of Me

I stay holed up in my bunk, headphones on to block out the world. The closer we grow to Florida the further I pull into myself. I can't join in on the usual band banter or sit around a table and play cards. A group of people that used to make me feel like I had a home on the road now feel like strangers. Gerard leads the pack. I can't even look at him. We don't talk. He spends his nights in his bunk, phone pressed to his ear as he talks to his new interest. 

Ashley's voice, powerful and smooth, washes over me, creating a kind of comfort. Images of the band as little kids flash across my laptop screen. Video of Ashley and matt sitting outside their California home smoking, they both look sweaty and worn down, dark rings circling their eyes. Ron and Ashley dancing around in the street faces turned up to the sky. Ryan and Andrew letting a bottle of champagne pop at their first release party. Pictures of Ashley and Ryan cuddled together on a backstage couch. The band goofing around at rehearsal. Claim of the Broken evolves in grainy black and white before my eyes.

The lyrics, backed by angry guitar and heavy drums, are hauntingly relatable. Ashley proclaims her insecurities, the lost feeling of watching friends and family fade away. At times she growls out the words, forcing her pain off onto the listener. Yet forever insisting that there's a light at the end of the long drive from Lonelyville. The video ends with a pan to Ashley's face. She's on the beach, looking over her shoulder into the camera. Her eyes are haunting. The final lines, _but sometimes we all have to breakdown in Lonelyville_ , float out over a fading bass chord. If the whole record is like this one song no one will be able to touch them.

Feeling the bus roll to a stop, my heart sinks. She'll be outside the hotel, waiting for all of us. Closing my eyes, I hope they'll all just think I'm sleeping. I don't want that fake reunion, the complete bullshit that is _hellos_ and _it's so good to see yous._ It seems to work, the bus exploding into action and then quickly going dead silent. No one even bothers to pull back the curtain on my bunk, ensuring I wasn't left behind at the last venue. 

I think I hate Florida.

Staring at my phone, I think back to the realization I came to about a week ago. If I had just picked up the phone I'm certain things would have ended differently. I guess now is a good a time as any to start my road to patching the holes. Her name sits at the bottom of a long list of As. My finger hovers over the call button, my whole body filled with electricity. She's probably changed her number. I'm probably blocked. Even if she answers the phone she's going to hang up as soon as she realizes it's me. My tongue sits like a brick at the bottom of my mouth, grinding against my teeth. 

Just as I'm certain shes's not going to answer, the phone clicks, "Hello?"

"Ashley?"

"Shouldn't you know? You called me."

My mind goes blank. She has no idea who this is. That's the only reason why she's still on the line. I brace myself for the hangup, the wicked _lose my number_ , "It's Frank."

"I know."

"You didn't delete my number?"

"I was going for a complete indifference approach, "Ashley responds, her tone cld.

Shaking my head, I bit back a snicker, "So that's why you get all nervous and blushy when I'm around."

"Remind me to punch you in the face next time I see you." The coldness slips away. It's like a conversation from the past, the friendly banter slowling my hammering heart.

"Just be sure to get the sie without the cut. I'd like to even it out."

Ashely scoffs, "Whatever. I don't know how to delete people out of my phone."

Rolling over in my bunk, I run my fingers through my hair. I didn't expect to get this far. There was no real point to this call. Her voice brings me a weird kind of comfort. Maybe I called just to hear it. "You just scroll to my name and hit the delete button."

"Is there a point to this call? Is everyone okay? We aren't at the hotel yet. You should call an ambulance or the police."

Stifling a chuckle, I imagine her shoved into the corner of the bus couch, probably smoking a cigarette with the window thrown open. Ashley doesn't handle the long stretches between stops well. She's always had a hard time sitting still. She's probably wearing a pouty scowl, her bottom lip stuck out. She'll fight to keep this expression, trying to keep the smile out of her voice. "I just wanted to say I liked your new song. It's good."

I beat my palm against my forehead. Good? Grilled cheese is good. Her song is a fucking masterpiece.

"Rad. Awesome. I was definitely looking for an underwhelming reaction. Thank you so much."

Rolling over, I flip out of the bunk. If I'm going to have this conversation I need to get the blood flowing. Sinking into the foam mattress might work around the guys, but Ashley won't accept that. Downing a cold cup of what I hope is coffee; I try and clear the pill fog from my brain. "It's better than good. It's amazing. And that video. Was that Matt?"

"Does it matter? Look, Frank, I get that you're going through some kind fo crisis because we're in Florida and Lindsey is going to be there, but I'm the wrong person to call. I don't feel bad for you. I don't want to help or be a shoulder to lean on. You can't just slide back into my life because yours is falling apart. I only answered cause I thought maybe something happened with Gerard. You know, an actual emergency."

Here it comes. The hangup. The end of our daily cigarette ritual. My only chance to get to slowly show Ashley I've changed. I wrack my brain for something to say, anything that will kee her on the line for even a few more seconds. The only thing I can think about are those times in high school, all the dumb things we did. I want that back so fucking badly. I miss my friend.

"I didn't call expecting you to care. I called to tell you I think that song is the best thing I'veever heard. It's good to see you putting out music and doing what you love."

Ashley sighs, "Thank you. I need to go now."

"See you tonight?"

"I gotta go somewhere to smoke. If you happen to be there, I guess I won't stub out in you eye."

~~~~~~~~

It's pouring, water bouncing off the concrete, clinging to my legs. Instead of holing up in the hotel room, I sit under an umbrella watching people rush back and forth from buses and cabs. Tour is like another world. People constantly running here and there, excited chatter hanging in the air. I guess I'm hoping some of that energy will seep into my tired muscles, give me a renewed sense of why the hell I'm here. I want a purpose, a direction. All I'm getting is confusion, my mind as muddy as the feet passing by me.

Across the parking lot, Ashley and Patrick bust out of the Fall Out Boy bus. They begin to twirl around in the rain. Patrick spins Ashley around, pulling her in close to his chest. They sing wildly, voices mixing in with the rolls of thunder. Mikey and Pete, who seem to spend every waking minute together, follow shortly after. Ashely forces Mikey to join in her dancing. Drenched, Mikey captures Pete's hand as he tries to escape back into the bus. The four of them jump around, hair dripping down their faces, clothes clinging to them. Mikey climbs on Ashley's back, his head thrown towards the sky in laughter as she spins in circles. I'm envious of how carefree they all seem, so full of life. I'm jealous that everyone seems to easily fall into Ashley's orbit. Everyone but me.

Ashely wanders over to the picnic table where I'm sitting. She digs her cigarettes from her packet, the package soggy with rain. She stares down at the destroyed smokes, letting out a long sigh. As she goes to get up, I flick my pack, shoving my lighter in her direction. She lsides one out, lighting it. 

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Ashely drums her fingers against the wooden table, shaking her head as she lets out a cloud of smoke, "Patrick says I should say thank you for your compliments on my song. So thanks, I guess."

"Tell Patrick I say your welcome. It really is one of the best things I've heard in a while. It's inspiring."

Ashley srunches up her nose, tongue sticking out, "Don't make me vomit. I didn't come over her looking for your thick as syrup bullshit."

"You don't get it, do you?" Shaking my head, I lean forward on the table. "I'm not bullshitting. I genuinely enjoyed it. This isn't some kind of move I'm pulling. That song is gonna radiate with a lot of people. It could make you huge. That song is gonna leave people desperate for more. You've tapped into something. What you're doing is special. You're special."

Tattooed fingers twitch, Ashley's eyes narrowing, "You're about five years too late to that realization, Frank."

Death by a thousand cuts. We take one step forward and then another twenty back. Nothing I say is right. No intention is seen as pure. She's hurt. I hurt her. She's still living in that hurt, probably reopening wounds to get words on paper. _Don't internalize._ I knew things weren't going to change overnight. _Let her live in the anger, chip away at it slowly. Show her the threat of broken promises and empty words isn't there. Don't lash back Allow the awkward. All her to feel. Ride the rollercoaster of emotion._

"I'm obviously not the sharpest tool in the box."

"Still a tool though." The dusting of a smile flashes over Ashley's face.

Nodding, I grin, "I set myself up for that one."

"Yes you did," Ashley slides another cigarette out of my pack, chewing on her bottom lip. "Frank."

"Hmm."

Ashley frowns, shaking her head, "Never mind. Thanks for the cigarettes."

My conversation with Ashley sends my wheels spinning. Here response to my question let me know that underneath all the hate, there is still something. Her willingness to sit across a table and at least hear me out shows me there's still hope. Ashley and I spent most of our high school careers playing ridiculous pranks on one another. Maybe if I can draw her back into that, recreate happier memories for our past, I can begin to win her over. I use the rest of the afternoon getting supplies I'll need for the most epic prank. Sure, I got some funny looks from the cahsier at Wal-Mart, but it'll all be worth it in the end. Getting the room number and keycard was easy. It's a miracle more fans don't end up sitting in our hotel rooms waiting for us to get back from a show.

"Frank, I'm not sure about this," Mikey hisses hours later as I slide the keycard into the door.

"It's fine, Mikey. We used to do shit like this to each other all the time in high school."

I figure Claim of the Broken has another fifteen to twenty minutes on their soundcheck and then however long it takes to get back here.

"You used to fill her bathtub with chocolate syrup?"

Plugging up the drain, I twist off the first cap, emptying the thick liquid into the bottom of the tub. "Not exactly, but dumb pranks, yes."

Mikey signs, shaking his head as he begins to help me. While he might not agree with my tactics, Gerard's younger brother knows I need something to distract myself from what's happening two floors above us. "She already hates your guts, dude. Wn't this just piss her off more?"

He's a perseptive one; I'll give him that. Nothing slips past Mikey, "She'll think it's hilarious. Hurry up."


	14. Break Bones

"You need five hundred of these?" The runner stares down at our grocery list, eyebrows hitched up to his hairline. "Am I reading this right?"

Rolling my eyes, I nod, moving out of the way as Ryan slide past with another bucket of chocolate syrup. It'll be a miracle if we aren't slapped with an insane cleaning bill. There's o way I'm letting Bert get away with this one without retaliation. The pranking started on our first tour together. It was innocent enough back then; stealing each other's shoes, replacing coffee grounds with dirt, stupid kid stuff. This is taking it to a whole nother level. When the hell did he even find the time to fill the whole fucking bathtub with chocolate syrup?

While trying to find a way to rid the tub of the congealed syrup, Ryan, Matt, Andrew, and I cooked up an equally devious plan. Sure, it sucks for the runner, but we aren't going to just take this laying down. This calls for a prank war to end all prank wars. Bert set the bar high. We're accepting the challenge to raise it.

We'll have a solid two hours while The Used is off the bus to do soundcheck and interviews. We're going to make sure they come back to the shock of a lifetime. The four of us wait anxiously for The Used to drive away. Ryan jumps around, trying to dispel some of his nervous energy. As the yellow cab pull away, we spring into action. Starting at the back of the bus, we fill every inch of space with mousetraps. Andrew and Matt work to line the top bunks while Ryan and I line the bottom ones. All of us walk on tiptoe, aware that one misstep could ruin our work. Gently placing the final trap on the last step, I slowly shut the bus door. Everyone falls into each other, letting out a collective sigh. 

As we head back into the hotel, I spot Gerard sitting at the picnic table, smoking. I send the rest of the band inside, wandering over to join him.

"Hey."

Gerard glances up from his sketchpad, giving me a nod, "Hey, Ash."

"Where's Lindsey?"

Gerard and Lindsey have practically been joined at the hip since she arrived. I've gotten to have a few conversations with her and she seems genuinely nice. She gushes about Gerard and the music his band is making. Usually sceptical of people who try and get close to Gerard, I find the girl calming, unable to pick up on any ill intentions or alterier motives. I think she honestly likes spending time with the guys.

"She went to grab some lunch." He glances around the parking lot. "She should be back soon." 

"How're things with you and Frank?" 

The singer frowns, chewing on a hangnail, "He's so damn moody all the time. He won't even talk to Lindsey. I don't know what's wrong with him." 

"Can I ask something?"

"Anything you want."

"Do you love him, Gerard?"

Normally I wouldn't pry, I'd leave the two of them alone, but the questions been sitting in the back of my mind for weeks now. Sometimes Gerard is all over the guitarist and others it seems like they don't even know each other. I'm concerned. Gerard has a hard time grappling with the fact he isn't straight or at least has a proclivity for certain types of men. I'm worried that any little dump in this relationship, any move on Franks part to hurry things along may send Gerard into a spiral. I'd rather pry and be prepared than be woken in the night by a drunken phone call. 

"I want to. I could," Gerard shakes his head. "I'm just not there yet."

"Can you get there?"

The singer frowns again, tipping forward to rest his forehead on the wooden surface, "It's more complicated than that. I have to come out, deal with that fallout. I have to accept that I'm not fully straight. Then I can work on loving Frank the way he loves me."

"Are you ready for that?"

"I'm not sure."

"Maybe you should tell Frank before he falls even further, before you're stuck in something you're not ready for." I move around the table to sit next to him, easing his head off the wood. "You have to feel it here - " I tap his temple "and here - " I press my palm into his chest just over his heart "or it won't work."

Gerard's eyes flutter closed, a single tear slipping down his cheek, "I don't want to hurt him."

"He'll get it. Ultimately he wants you to be happy, even if it isn't with him. But, Gerard, if you're gonna do it, do it soon."

I go into the show that night with a pit in my stomach. I probably shouldn't have spoken for Frank. I don't know his heart and I never really did. I do know Gerard though and what I said was what he needed to hear. The pieces just have to fall where they may.

Three songs in and I've pretty much forgotten my concerns. The crows goes wild, feeding off of each other. Bodies tumble through the pit, disappearing over the barrier. A black snake sits in waiting, coiling itself around my ankle. Jumping from the amp, I get caught, tumbling to the stage. Filled with adrenaline, I slide my back over the dusty surface, trying to play off the mistake as intentional. No one will ever have to know. My ankle throbs, my heart finding its beat inside my boot. Lying out, I finish the rest of the song on my back. As the drums kick in, I try and jump up. Shooting pain, like hot pokers to the leg. Kneeling up, I play the rest of the show from my knees, attempting to play guitar and shout lyrics into the microphone.

Ryan and Matt help me hobble to the center of the stage, the four of us quickly bowing off. I can feel my skin pressing against the edge of my Doc Martin. People rush around me, Andrew calling for a medic. Against groans of protest, my shoe is ripped off, ankle turned at unfriendly angles. Someone says something about the hospital. Before I can protest EMTs swirl into view, the back of an ambluance encasing me.

My adrenaline high begins to wain, shivers wracking my body. Rolling over on the gurney, I hug myself, trying to breathe through the tremors traveling up and down my spine. In and out. In and out. Closing my eyes, I count each breath, tugging my tongue into the back of my mouth and away from chattering teeth.

"She's going into shock!"

Forcing my eyes open, I see Matt spring into action, blocking the EMT from hooking me up to some kind of fluid bag, "No! She's fine. Her bodies trying to come down from the adrenaline. This happens every time. She's fine. No needles."

Andrew rubs my back, holding my hand as I'm wheeled into the emergency room. Two hours and a cast later, I'm propped up in my hotel bed. Bert joins us, his hands littered with little red marks; proof he's discovered our payback prank. That'll teach him to fill my tub with syrup. 

"What happened?"

Shrugging, I grab another handful of popcorn, "I guess I got tangled up in the mic chord. I jumped off the amp like every other show and just hit the ground."

"And you just kept playing?" Bert flips through the channels on the television, nothing seeming to keep his attention.

"Fuck yeah I kept playing. I just hopped up on my knees and gave them the best show I could."

Matt beams over at me, "My sister the badass."

"What would've been badass is if I hadn't broken my ankle," I laugh back, turning my attention to Bert's fingers, now laced through mine. "What happened to your hand?"

Bert frowns, shooting me a sideways glance as he raises an eyebrow. The friendly sparkle of a smile in his eyes lets me know I'm not in too much trouble for the stunt. I mean, after all, it was only payback for that he did. " _Someone_ filled out bus with mousetraps."

"I wonder who could have doen that," I stifle a laugh, biting hard into my bottom lip.

The singer rolls his eyes, settling back against the pillows, "I wonder."

Frank is already sitting at the picnic table when I hobble down for my before bed cigarette. Lowering myself onto the wooden bench, I cast the crutches aside. Not even a day and I despise the things. They click when I walk, pushing uncomfortably into my armpits. Being stuck in a wheelchair would have been better than this. Propping my foot up on the seat opposite me, I pull out a smoke. Frank raises an eyebrow as he stares down at the neon pink cast that now encases my foot and ankle.

"What happened?" He nods in the direction of my foot, letting out a cloud of hazy grey smoke.

"I broke it."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"There's not much to talk about. I fell, I broke it. Real interesting story. How're things with Gerard and Lindsey?"

Frank shakes his head, "I don't wanna talk about it."

We lapse into silence. To say it's comfortable would feel wrong. Nothing about this little routine we've created is necessarily comfortable. I'm not even sure why I've continued this for as long as I have. Then again, that would be a lie. I know why. I'm just not sure I'm ready to let those thoughts come out of their cage. Sometimes it just hurts less when I don't have to keep up the facade of complete indiffrence. Sometimes it's easier to just exist around him, even if it does feel forced and awkward. Even if the things he says and does still piss me off to no end. Sometimes I need to live in a cloud of smoke and a daydream that things might be okay if I let them.

"Can I tell you something funny?"

Frank drags his eyes up from my cast, letting them linger on my face, "If it's actually funny."

"It is."

"Then by all means," Frank makes a grand gesture with his hand, tugging another cigarette fron his pack.

Snickering I launch into the story of how Bert filled the tub with syrup and how in return the band and I filled his bus with mousetraps. I expect Frank, who holds a deep-seated loathing for Bert, to find this hilarious. I expect him to burst into a fit of giggles, feet pounding against the sand riddled parking lot. I expect his eyes to shine with tears brought on from laughing too hard for too long. I expect him to go into a rant about how much he hates Bert and how he deserved every snap of the mousetrap on his hands.

I don't get what I'm expecting at all. I get a blank stare and a puff of smoke. For what feels like the thousandsth time in too short a period, I get Frank walking away.


	15. Pain

Bert fucking McCracken. She's giving Bert _fucking_ McCracken credit for my flawlessly pulled-off prank. The whole band has a total of two working brain cells and she thinks they could have come up with that? Karma's a real bitch and she sure as hell has it out for me. Slamming the room door, I storm into a scene that only causes my blood to boil more. Gerard and Lindsey lounge across the bed, comic books strewn out around them. They laugh; knocking their shoulders together as they live in their blissful ignorance. I have to remind myself not to explode because really, I have no place. He's not really mine, he never was. Somehow I tricked myself into thinking we had a chance. Somewhere between the kisses and the hand-holding and the falling in love and the planning out future together I thought we had something. Suddenly, I understand how Ashley must be feeling and it kills me. 

She's still sitting at the picnic table, smoking and writing in her notebook when I come stomping back. Really, I didn't expect anything else because it's Ashley and underneath all the hate and bullshit we always end up in these kinds of situations. Popping a few pills onto my tongue, I tuck the bottle away before slumping down across from her. She looks up at me, blowing a billow of smoke into the night as she nods like she understands even though I know she doesn't, not really anyway. I'm just an asshole to her, a one-dimensional life sucker only swirling into existence to disrupt her otherwise happy and peaceful life. I crave to lean across the table and press my lips to hers, my whole body vibrating with the desire, but I don't because I know it will only cause more trouble than it can solve. My stomach rolls, twisting up into increasingly tighter knots. 

Then she breaks the silence, a sigh of relieft leaving me as her voice fills the hole tha's slowly started growing inside of me, "You came back."

"Yes." I don't trust myself to say more as the pills start to kick in and my brain starts to go quiet.

Ashley closes the notebook, setting it aside, "Can I ask why you left?"

I hate how formal she sounds, how forced. This isn't how it's supposed to be. We're supposed to be Frank and Ashley. We're supposed to be goofing around. We're supposed to be shooting meaningless insults back and forth just to see the color rising to the other's cheeks. At the very least we're supposed to be hating each other.

"Didn't want to say something stupid."

"Wow, look who's growing up."

The smirk lets me know we're back, but the sadness in her eyes still lingers, no smile ever quite reaching them when I'm around. Maybe that's my curse. Maybe I'm meant to live in this miserable limbo where we're not quite enemies but not quite friends either. I'm projecting, pushing my issues with Gerard off on Ashley and I hate myself all over again because that's bullshit and childish and I know it, but there's nothing I can do to stop it from happening.

I hate myself more, seeing that she'd let me. There is an understanding and a poise that should never have to sit on a face that pretty. There's knowledge there that someone her age should never have to bear the burden of. A part of me wants to put the blame fully in my lap, but even I'm not that arrogant. I could have never taught her eyes to look so old or for the frown lines around her mouth to know just where to form. That was life. Perhaps life, those experiences we've come out the other end of, make us more alike that we'd like to admit.

"Frank." She says my name like she's hiding some earth-shattering secret. "Maybe it's for the better because if we're being honest it's always been toxic. It's always been one of you giving too much and the other not remembering. It's always been hidden affection and lusty glances. It's always been for the cameras and for the media. And he's still the best guy but maybe together it just doesn't work."

In this moment, I'm certain she knows more than I do. She's had conversations with Gerard. When she asked me why Lindsey was coming she already knew. She just wanted to know if I did. Like normal, I wasn't told. I'm just meant to figure it out, to use the context clues. I don't want her words to be true. I want to lash out and tell her she knows nothing, but it's a big fat lie and I'm so damn tired of those.

The way her shoulder hunch forward, the way the smoke leaves her lips in little huffs shows me she doesn't want this to be her burden. The glint in her eyes, that little spark of understanding also lets me know she's aware that she's the only one who can really hold it. She's been told too much, let into a circle full of secrets and fuck-ups and now she can't get out. That one I can take responsibility for. This is one circle I led her right into the middle of. I just couldn't stay away.

"Maybe it's all for a reason. Maybe you and I are sat here in the middle of fucking nowhere Florida for a reason. Maybe it's time to stop fighting the inevitable and just accept the truth."

I regret the words th instant her face twists up into a look of utter disgust. Her nose crinkles, eyes narrowing to slits. She hobbles up, clutching at her crutches as if they're the only things still tethering her to reality. I need to learn to keep my fucing mouth shut. I need to quit these stupid pills because they're only going to dig the hole I'm already in deeper. They're only going to keep making me say stupid things.

"No, Frank," she continues to stare me down with a look of repulsion. "It doesn't work like that. I'm not going to just forget everything because you're being nice. I won't just be a pawn in your fucked up version of reality. You wanna know why?"

Crossing my arms over my chest, I arch an eyebrow, "You're going to tell me regardless."

"Yes! I am! I won't be a pawn because after this we have to go bak to the real world. Because after leaving behind the fog of tour we have to deal with the consequences of our actions. I refuse to let you use me as an excuse for your bad decisions. I can't just be there when you need a distraction. I can't do it again!" her whole body goes limp, the fire in her eyes extinguishing just as quickly as it lit. her gaze tears away from mine, trained on the little puddle of water by her feet. "It hurts too much."

"Ashley, I - "

But she's hobbiling away, my sad attempts at saving the situation falling on deaf ears. It only burns more as she falls into the arms of Bert who always seems to be waiting in the wings for me to fuck up again, and I always fuck up again. Nothing comes out the way I intend it to. Nothing I say could ever fix the hurt and the mistrust and the anger. I pop a few more pills because hey, they can't fuck me up anymore that I already am, and truthfully, feeling nothing is so much better than having to feel all of this. 

The days go by in a blur as I move from bus, to stage, to hotel room. I feel nothing, not even his body laid up against mine or his lips working against my own. I know I should be cherishing these little moments when he's still mine and I'm still his, but they just leave a bitter taste in my mouth. It's too much like not brushing your teeth for a few days or the sticky feeling that settles in after a night of heavy drinking. I know it won't last and in a few hours th sun will come up and he'll go back to giving me the cold shoulder as he falls further into Lindsey and further away from me.

That hurts the most because I know hoe incredibly beautifyl we can be together. I have all the memories playing out before me, but I'm not the main character anymore. I'm not the one he giggles with or sits up late at night to have conversations with. Wracking my brain for the breaking point just gives me a headache because I always come up blank. The blankness allows Ashley's words to seep in and I don't want to believe the cracks have been there from the very beginning because that is the worst kind of pain.

As I fade away, he grows brighter. Most days I forget, drowining myself in pills and just enough alcohol to keep the dreams at bay. Slowly, I begin to think that this tour is the highway to my downfall and perhaps I'm okay with that. Perhaps I sound like a whiny teenager with too many emotions and too little interest in keeping them in check, but I don't care. As I continue to observe Lindsey and Gerard growing closer, I realize that Ashley was right. I hate it, but it's the truth and honestly I could use a little more of that. The cracks between Gerard and I have always been there. We were very good at avoiding them, happy to live in our blissful ignorance. But I can't do that anymore. I can't keep lying to myself. That's another thing Ashely had right; it just hurts too damn much. 


	16. Drown

"So," I address the crowd, thousands of eyes staring back up at me, hanging on my every word. It's exhilarating yet cripplingly terrifying all at the same time. To have this kind of power, to captivate a crowd with a single word. I don't think I'll ever quite get a rush like this anywhere but the stage. "I'm sure all of you saw me walk out on crutches. A few nights ago, I broke my ankle. It hurts like hell. A lot of people on my crew said I should cancel tonight."

I laugh, shaking my head at the absolutely foolish idea I came up with, "I mean, they're probably right, I can't fucking walk. I didn't want to though. I didn't want to do that to you. While they were putting on the cast I was thinking of ways I could come out here and still give it a hundred percent. I realized I couldn't do that - "

I wait for the disappointed booing to die down. I know what they're all thinking; I'm coming out here to give some bullshit speech about how I can't perform tonight. Grinning, I know my next words are going to send them over the edge. " - from up here. Can I get a big circle on the floor?" 

The kids open up, creating a slightly misshapen circle in the middle of the pit. A security guard, dressed in a shirt of sickening yellow, helps me down off the stage. Everyone in the crowd remains silent as I make my way through them and into the empty space. Security sets up a chair, helping me strap my guitar over my shoulder. Once I'm settled, I nod him away, turning to look at all the faces staring back at me.

"I've never done this before. I'm not sure any band has. I figured the only way I could give this my all was to be in here with you. Now, I've got a few rules." I chuckle at the collective groan that rumbles through the crowd. "I know, I know, but there are always rules. I need everyone to be respectful. I don't have security down here with me and I don't wanna call them out. You can get rowdy, I'd be disappointed if you didn't, but don't eat me in the crowd. You behave and maybe I'll do this again. If you don't you'll ruin it not only for yourselves but for everyone else. Do we have a deal?" 

The crowd roars and from my place in the middle of them it feels like nothing I've ever experienced before.

"That's what I fucking thought." Placing the microphone back in its stand, I play out the first few chords of our opening song. "Let's rock!"

The show goes off without a hitch. The kids dance and scream the lyrics back at me from all sides. Sure, I get bumped into buts it's always followed with an apologetic smile and a quick back off. At times I stand, jumping around on one foot as I swing my guitar around. Down here I can forget everything. I can be someone who isn't confused or hurt or hiding. I can be myself because that's what everyone else is going. I don't have to think about Frank and how utterly irritating he is. I don't have to try and lie to myself about feelings I don't want to be there. I can breathe and I can sing. That feels fucking rad.

The whole pit sits down with me as I sing out the final song, lighters and phones thrust into the air. I cry and they cry with me. The feeling of hands reaching up to grip my shoulders and offer a comforting pat makes me feel more connected to the group of people that care enough to listen to my music. More than anything else ever could. Before hobbling back to the stage, I give out hugs and handshakes and even a few kisses to tear-streaked cheeks, not because I feel obligated but because I want to, because these kids are just as much my family as the guys waiting for me on stage. 

As I lean against my brother, I press the microphone back to my lips, somehow feeling that my usual bow off isn't enough, "Thank you. You all made this night so incredibly special. You've all reminded me why I started this band in the first place. Tonight it's not just us four fools up here, tonight it's all of us. So tonight, we, as a collective whole are Claim of the Broken. Thank you for a night I will never forget."

I stay and watch The Used and Fall Out Boy play, not nearly exhausted enough to return to my bed just yet. Bert smiles stupidly over at me, sticking his tongue out and making kissy faces anytime he catches my gaze. It feels light and fresh, void of the messy confusion of labels and definitions. Bert and I will never be good with those types of things, but I enjoy the teenage flirting and the way his eyes crease when he smiles and the way he's never scared to just lean over and kiss me. I take comfort in the unknown, in the vagueness of what we are because there's no pressure and no chance of getting hurt or false expectations. 

Andy drags me out on stage to play drums in Fall Out Boy's final song. Though I'm sure I fucked it up royally, barely able to control the kick drum with my fucked up ankle, no one notices. The crowd is still going wild after the stage lights kick off and the house lights flip back up. Pete carries me off the stage on his back, giving the crowd a friendly wave before disappearing behind the curtain. Everyone talks excitedly, cramming into the back of cabs and vans to return to what will be our final night in the hotels.

~~~~~~

"Hold the elevator!" A hand shoves through the closing doors, causing them to spring back.

He slips into the elevator, hovering in the corner, his face buried in his phone. Shooting him a side-glance, I hit the button for the lobby. I hope he hasn't realized who he's in here with. I hope it's too early in the morning for him to care or have the energy to try and start up another conversation I'm in no mood to have. Staring up at the plastic circles above the door, I watch the indicator light jump from floor to floor as we head down. The elevator shakes, suddeny speeding our decent. The lights above the doors go out as we're jerked to a stop. My knees buckle; cast sliding out against the tiled floor, butt biting into the hard surface.

Frank looks up from his phone. His finger jams against the lobby button a few times, "Move dammit."

"It's an elevator, not your shitty Grand Am."

I get an eye roll, Frank shaking his head, "Real helpful, Ashley. I hadn't noticed."

"Just push the fucking help button." Of all the people to be stuck in an elevator with, it just had to be him. This has got to be some kind of twisted karma.

Frank hits the red button at the bottom of the panel. Static feedback plays through the elevator. We're plunged into darkness. Sighing, I kick my feet out in front of me, leaning back agains the wall. I suppose I should just go ahead and accept my fate.

"Want me to call Gerard?"

"Will that help us get out of this death box?"

"Maybe."

I should have braved the stairs. Matt would have carried the down. I'd be free of this stupid elevator and away frm Frank's stupid one-sided conversation. Closing my eyes, I lean my head back, feeling a leg brush up against mine. I dig my nails into my palm to try and fight against the butterflies that fill my stomach at the contact. I shouldn't feel that way. I don't want ot feel that way. He's Frank. He's an asshole. Feeling that way will only get more crushing disappointment and heartache. Digging my phone out of my pocket, I flip it open. Dead. Fucking awesome.

"So I've got good news and bad news," Frank announces into the darkness. "which one do you want first?"

"Don't care."

"Fine, fucking spoil sport," I'm sure he's sticking his tongue out at me, but I can't see it and honestly I'm glad. "Good news, they've called people to come rescue us. Bad news, they have no idea how long it's going to take."

Groaning, I let my head make contact with the wall over and over. We sit silently, the drumming of Frank's fingers the only sound filling the small space. How long before we run out of oxygen? These things can't be airtight. They wouldn't make them like that. Would they? I try to slow my breathing. God, I need a cigarette. What if this thing just drops, the cords holding it up snapping? Would a fall like that kill us? How many floors above the ground are we? I wrack my brain, trying to remember what circle was lit up before the power went out. The third. Maybe the fourth.

A rattling pulls my attention. I can hear Frank moving around, a lid clicking open, "What the hell is that?"

When he doesn't respond, I shove a hand out into the dark, fingers colliding with flesh. Frank jerks away. More rattling. Throwing my body forward, I manage to tackle him. Frank squirms, fighting against me as I try to pry whatever he's got out of his hand. Finally, my fingers curl around the plastic container. I yank away from him, holding the bottle to my chest as he tries to snatch it back.

"Are these fucking pills? What the hell, Frank?"

"Give them back!"

Holding him back, I squint at the label, trying to read out the prescription name. It's too damn dark in here. "What are these?"

"Ashley."

"What are you taking these?"

My heart knows the answer. Frank's been in this position before, self-medicating to deal with his problem. He swore he was done with this shit. Another fucking fake promise. I should've known when Gerard said he was acting strange. That's how it starts. The behavior changes, with Frank trying to pretend he's got control. He spirals quickly, going from flying high to plummeting within hours. These things suck the life out of him. How could he start this again already knowing the end result? But I know that answer too. It's easy to fall into. It's the same reason I went right back to my addiction. You know they're bad for you, but it helps. It's quiets the things you don't want to hear. It's easy.

"Does Gerard know?"

"Ashley, please, just give them back."

"Not until you tell me what it is."

Frank lets out a defeated sigh," Percocet."

I throw the bottle across the elevator. It hits something, bouncing, rattling its way across the floor. The smooth plastic hits aganst my fingers. "How long?"

"Since tour started."

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter," His fingers brush against mine as he takes the bottle back. "No one knows."

I don't want to be in this position. Honestly, I don't want to have to deal with his shit. I don't want to be sucked back into his world, a world he doesn't want me in. This shouldn't be my responsibility. I shoul've left well enough alone. I didn't though. I never can. As much as I don't want to admit it, I think I've already been sucked back into his world. There's a part of me, a part I keep safely hidden away, tucked up where sometimes I can't even see it, which still cares. That still wants to see Frank happy and suceeding. Maybe there's even a part of me that wants to be along side him as he does that in whatever capacity he'll have me. That's a part I'm not quite ready to let out yet. Not even faced with this. We were friends once. He was someone I loved. Despite the gaping woulds still left bleeding, it would be against everything I stand for to let him drown in this again. The part of me that still cares stirs, clawing its way up to the surface, settling over my heart in a pang of hope and confusion.

"Frank."

"I don't want a lecture, okay?" He snaps back. "I know it's stupid and selfish and that once again I was only thinking about myself. I get it. I'm a piece of shit."

"Come on, there's no reason to go insulting shit."

Frank snorts, letting me know my joke landed. Just because this feel in my lap doesn't mean I'm going to drop the sarcasm. He deserves at last a little bit of harm time. It's his fault for pulling them out in front of me. Frank gives me a jab to the calf, "You can be a real ass when you wanna be."

"Thank you," I grin, happy that he can't see it. I remind myself that we are not the same. Things will never, _can never_ , go back to how they were. No matter how badly I may want them to. I can't keep holding onto a memory. "For the record - " It's my turn to jab him in the leg. "- I wasn't going to lecture."

I can imagine the eye roll he's giving me, "That would be a first."

"I'm here if you need me, Frank, all the bullshit aside."

The sound of metal against metal drowns out whatever Frank responds. A tiny crack of light fliters into the dark box. "Frank Iero? Ashley Beson?"

"That's us." Using the handrail, I hoist myself up off the ground, dragging my ankle behind me as I move towards the light. Through the crack in the doors I can see a fireman's helmet.

"We're here to get you guys out."

My brother wraps me in a hug once I'm free from the elevator. The stupid ting got stuck between floors, Frank and I having to wedge our way up and out. He talks with Gerard, the two sharing a hug but nothing more. Part way up the hall, I disconnect from Matt, sending him on his way. Turning back around, I see Frank standing alone, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He wears a frown, eyes trained up hallway to where Gerard must have disappeared. The reunion was clearly not what he was looking for.

"Hey, Frank?"

His eyes light up as he turns to look at me, the frown morphing into a smile. He raises an eyebrow, tipping back and forth on hi toes as he wait for me to continue.

"You're still an asshole."

Frank smirks, giving me a wink, "I know."


	17. Under the Gun

I know it's a bad decision. I knew it was a bad decision from the second it swirled to life, but I have to know. I never thought it would be like this, though. And now that the words have so unceremoniously spilled from my lips there's no going back. His eyes narrow, eyebrows coming together to form a caterpillar across his face. Gerard's lips pull down into a harsh grimace, hands finding their way to his hips as he stares through me. Devoid of the usual stomach cramps and jittery electricity that usually accompany my shitty decisions, I feel oddly naked. 

My words hang between us, thick as stone, waiting for Gerard to snap them up or shoot them down. I desperately wish I could snatch them back, shoving the ill-timed anger back down my throat. The fire growing in Gerard's eyes, turning the honey colored irises a threatening black, says everything.

"You can't do this," Gerard growls back. "You can't demand I choose. I shouldn't have to choose. This is my life, Frank. What were you expecting?"

Shaking my head, I let my gaze drop, no longer able to stomach the feelings that spring between us. I can't see him looking at me like this; like I'm not here, like I've just asked him to cut off one of his limbs, "Yeah. Well. It's my life too! I guess I just thought all those things we said to each other meant something." 

"Of course they _mean_ something, Frank!" Gerard throws his hand out, voice rising as he begins to pace up and down the small space.

"Then why is this so hard?"

He's in my face now, heat radiating off of him in angry waves, forcing me up against the bathroom door, "You know you it's so hard! You think I wanted this? I never meant for this to go as far as it did. We were having fun! Why can't you just leave it at that?"

"I don't know, Gerard. Maybe I'm tired of feeling like some dirty secret. Maybe I want to be able to tell my family that the amazing person I'm seeing is you! Maybe I thought us talking about a home and vacations and pets was more than just some vibrant story you were telling! Maybe I need to know that when I wake up in the morning, you're still going to be there!"

His fist makes contact with the door behind me, the reverberations vibrating down my spine as I try and shrink further away, "I don't want all that! I don't _want_ to be gay! I don't _want_ the whole band to revolve around our relationship. I don't _wan_ t to have to answer all the bullshit questions. _I don't want this_!"

My heart stops. Time stops. I don't remember how to breathe...swallow...think. I try desperately to assign some other meaning to his words. He's scared. Gerard has always been skeptical of what would become of the band if we were publically together. He worries. One spotlight is daunting enough. Putting another on him just seems too big of a task right now. His words course through me, pushing through my bloodstream with each pathetic throb of my heart. None of that's true. I could stand here for the rest of my life coming up with excuses and it wouldn't matter. Not with the truth staring me in the face, ringing in my ears. He doesn't want _us_.

"So that's it?" The words feel like razor blades coming up my throat, cutting across my tongue, leaving my lips raw and bleeding. 

~~~~~

I know it's a bad decision. I knew it was a bad decision from the second it swirled to life, but I've never been very good at leaving well enough alone. If he can just feel what we have. If we can just get that spark back. We've just confused everything. The stress of tour has gotten to us. That spark is still there. It has to be. We've just got to find it, rekindle it. I just need him to know I'm sorry. I never meant to give him an ultimatum. I don't want that. I want him; in any capacity I can have him. Even if it is just on stage. Even if it is just an act. Maybe even if that last moment we have together isn't filled with hate and resentment. Maybe then I can let it go. 

Strolling across the stage, high on little orange bottle confidence, I hop up onto the speaker in front of Gerard. He ignores me, tugging the micriphone from its stand. I have to do this now. He's going to walk away. Launching myself at him, I get him by the neck, lips already searching for his. The microphone drops, creating a threatening feedback, the soundtrack to my demise. His hands come up to my shoulders, pushing, trying to wiggle away from me. Pleading with my eyes, I try and tell him to let me in, to show him what we could be. Instead, he gives me a sharp shove. Already unsteady on my feet, I tip back, butt biting into the unforgiving wood of the stage.

This is worse. So much worse. Everything else falls away as I stare up at the man I love, made blurry now by the tears stinging my eyes. His look kills me, ripping my heart out and stomping on it for thousands to see. I can't be here right now. A water bottle explodes at my feet, followed by a string of curses. I can't see. My fingertips pulse, an icy grip crawling up under my nails, sinking into my hands, my forearms, my shoulders. My stomach flips, sending hot acid into my mouth. 

He meant it. This is done. So done he's willing to push me to the floor, throw things at me. I don't want to deal with this. I _can't_ deal with this. The last few years of my life have to mean something. This isn't real. I'm having a fever dream. Too many pills and too much booze. Pinching at my forearm, I blink back tears. This is a dream. I just have to wake up. He'll be right next to me, curled around me for warmth. I just have to wake up. 

I hit a wall of flesh, familiar eyes, pulling me out of my haze, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I have to go."

"What you _have_ to do is finish your set," her palms bite into my shoulders, giving me a gentle but firm shove back towards the direction I just came from. "I don't know what the hell is going on with you two and quite honestly, I don't care. Those kids paid for a show. Give them the fucking show. Deal with your bullshit later." 

"I can't be up there."

"I will drag you back out there and prop you up if I have to. Finish the fucking set."

"I can't - " I stare down at my hands, no longer connected to my body.

Her face twists in a look of disgust, "You're fucking stoned right now. What the fuck, Frank?"

"Rock and roll," I slurr out, the edges of my vision wavering.

Cold liquid drips down my back and chest, an empty plastic bottle hitting me in the face, "Being in a rock band is about more than alcoholism and drug addiction. I thought you of all people would know that."

"Yeah, well, obviously, I don't."

"Obviously."

~~~~~

The words explode from my fingers, appearing on the dimly lit screen faster than I can even think. All of my anger and hurt and rejection spills out. It's published before I have time to think of the consequences. No one knows it's me, not definitively anyway. There's nothing they can prove. Body still shaking from the excess of negativity now settling in my blood steam, I swallow another handful of pills, washing them down with whatever alcohol is around. Slowly it all spils away. Maybe it really is just a bad dream. 

~~~~~

"If it isn't the boy who can't keep my name out of his mouth."

She shoves a piece of paper against my chest. The big bold title stares up at me, my stomach lurching up towards my throat, likely a combination of seeing last night's anger thrown in my face and the fact I'm hungover as shit. The words on the paper, so much angst and vengence, begin to swim before my eyes. 

"Or should I say out of his blog," Ashley continues with fire. "Did you think I wouldn't see this? Do you not think I get dozens of emails a day with shit like this in them? Don't even try to deny it's you either. I'd know your writing style anywhere."

The anger slides out in the form of a snarky comment, flying out of my mouth before I can even consider the implications, "I figured it you could put my name in your mouth, then I could put yours in mine."

"Probably just the first time your boyfriend's dick hasn't been stuffed in it."

She's always been so much better at this game than I am. Ashley has no qualm going right for that spot that hurts the most, that little part of my hear that's already raw and bleeding. I was a fool to think our conversations over the past few weeks meant anything. Ashley doesn't care. She doesn't want to help me. She's taking this rope and hanging me with it, gleefully delightin in my sad attempts to survive. That's the difference between Ashley and me; she'll wait, for years if she's got to, I jump more often than not drowning.

"Don't come over here and throw Gerard in my face," I spit back.

"No need. He seems to be doing a fine job of that himself. Or was that little fight you two had last night just another media stunt? Was him talking about Lindsey in the interview this morning just to throw people off you two dating?"

As the tears continue to burn at my eyes, threatening to spill over, I can't find it in me to keep this up. My shoulders huch, the paper falling from my fingers, getting caught up in the breeze. I just want to be done with the fighting. I'd sit in the dark elevator and listen to her yell at me all day about being a better person if I just didn't have to keep doing this. I don't hate her. I don't even dislike her. Pretending to, acting like I don't want to put the past in its place, it's killing me inside.

I just need something good in my life, one thing. A part of me was hoping that would be Ashley. I know if we continue down this road that will never happen. It's time to hang up the white flag, time to beg for a cease-fire. I can't take anymore bullets. I can't weather this storm. She wins. She broke me. Gerard broke me. Hell, maybe I broke myself.

"I don't want to do this."

"Do what?"

"I don't want to fight. I don't want you to talk over here just to tear me down. I don't want us to hurt each other anymore. I don't want to hurt anymore."

Ashley scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest as she shakes her head in disbelief, "Because writing what you did, that wasn't going to hurt me? What? You can dish it out but when it comes time to take it, you just can't? It's all too much? You dug this hole, Frank. So fuck you. Sit in it."

"Fuck you, Ashley!" Because it's all I can say, my only defense left.

"No! Fuck you, Frank! Fuck you for all those things you said about me! I was nothing but good to you and you threw it all in my face! I fought for us! For you! All you did was push me away because if you aren't the most miserable bastard on the planet you don't feel alive! You shoved me out of your life at every chance you got for some shitty songs and then act like I'm the bad guy! Fuck you, Frank! Fuck you!" Standing there limply, I accept the fists now beating against my chest, letting her get it all out. It was cound to happen. I deserve. this. "Fuck you! Fuck you!"

She collapses against me in a mess of sharp inhales and smeared mascara. Her face presses against my neck, burning red and slicked with tears. I hold her as she clings to me, body wracked with sobs. Gently rubbing circles against her back, I let my forehead fall against her shoulder. As she cries, I apologize. For the way I treated her. For all the promises I made and couldn't follow through on. For not being there when her brother died. For walking out of her life when she needed me most. For carrying on a charade of not caring when I never really stopped. For having to live through what I put her through to finally understand how fucked it was.

I know the war is over. Neither of us have it in ourselves to keep fighting. We've both pushed, both brought out the worst in the other. None of it was worth it. We didn't achieve anything. No one came out on top. There's no medal, no cheering crowd. All the battles and all we've got to show for it is self-destruction.

As Ashley pulls away from me, I lead us over to a couple of folding chairs. She allows me to pull her onto my lap, wrapping my arms protectively around her. Ashley curls into me, using my shirt to wipe away her tears. We sit in an unkowning silence, neither completely comfortable, but not too uncomfortable to think of breaking it. This is healing silence. OUr hearts beating together, saying more than we ever could.

"I didn't mean it." My voice cracks, lips begging to stay pressed tightly together. "What I wrote. I was angry with Gerard...with myself. I wasn't angry with you. I'm sorry. It was childish."

Ashley sniffs; using her thumb to wipe away a few tears still clinging to my cheeks, "So why'd you write it about me?"

"Because I'm not ready to feel that towards him. I've spent so long pretending to hate you, acting like I was happy we didn't talk anymore, that I didn't care. As shitty as it sounds, you were the easy target."

Ashley nods, biting down on her lip in an attempt to keep it from quivering. I expect yelling, for her to start beating on my chest again and telling me how shitty of a person I am. I brace myself for the ultimate fallout, for Ashley to tell me the war is over, but she'll never forgive me. We can't just stop the bickering back and forth; _we_ have to stop all together. No talking. No hope at ever being friends again. The words that come out of her mouth shock me. 

"Can you take it down? Please?"

Leaning my forehead against her shoulder, I nod, "Yeah. I can do that."

"Thank you." Her fingers trail through the ends of my hair, brushing gently against the tattoos littering my neck, causing shivers to course down my spine, "Hey, Frank?"

I hum into her touch, quietly praying she's not about to go in for the fatal blow.

"I have to take pictures for the album artwork. Do you - why don't you come along. I'll need soemone to hold my crutches for me."

She looks down at me with wide eyes, lashes still damp from crying. As she cocks her head to the side, hair falling into her face, I can't help but smile. She looks like a cartoon character, ips tugging up in a hopeful grin. This is her peace offering. An offering I very much need. Maybe it'll fall apart. Maybe I'm destined to screw this up like I always seem to do. Yet, for now, I know I'd be a fool to not accept the inviation. For right now, we might just be okay.

Giving Ashley a tight squeeze, I nod, "I'd love to."


	18. House On A Hill

The weeks fly by, the end of tour looming ahead like a light at the end of an incredibly long, uncomfortably dark tunnel. My body aches, new injuries appearing, mingling in with other bumps and bruises in various stages of healing. My ankle heals. Frank and I fall into a kind of routine. As we wander the venues, all beginning to look very much like the last, we talk and smoke. Slowly, I'm beginning to let him back in. We talk about the past, the happy moments, neither quite ready to have heavy conversations. Frank tells me about Gerard, about what led up to the blowout on stage. Despite desperately wanting to put everything behind us, I just can't. I'm still hurt. I still hold him at arms lenght, not certain I'm ready to fully put my trust in him.

The album gets mostly recorded, the songs coming together to tell a story of hurt and betrayal, the loss of love, the loss of self, but most of all, healing. It's a coming of age story set to screaming guitars and old school drum beats. It's more than any of us could ever imagine. We leave Richard behind. This album will officially be put out on Bastard Sounds, Andrew's record label. It felt right. We weren't willing to give up creative freedom. We didn't want to make the changes. We wanted the recrod to be us, fully, without outside influence. The last peice of the album is the artwork and one more song. So far, nothing seems to fit. Matt and I spend hours hunched over his laptop screen, trying, and ultimately failing to get something to work.

Frank tugs his jacket righter around his shoulders, hands shoved deep in his pockets as we begin our walk. With an eye for finding beauty in the mundane, Frank helps me on my quest to take the perfect picture. Sometimes we spend hours shooting little blades of grass or flowers that dare to pop up through the snow. Other times we just talk, the camera completely forgotten. Each day feels like the day I get the album cover. Each day I come back with something just short of what we're looking for. Today, I'm taking a different approach.

Leading Frank back through the forest that lines the venue, I chew at the inside of my cheek. He's never going to agree to this. I should've asked one of the guys. Hell, even Bert, who can't take a decent picture to save his life, would've probably been a better option. Yet, as I hand the camera over to Frank, beginning to slide out of my jacket, he doesn't protest. I keep my back to him, slowly disrobing. The winter chill eats away at my skin, begging me to scrap this idea, to just keep muddling through crappy shot after crappy shot.

"Ash," Frank pipes up as I go to unclasp my bra. I'm left standing in nothing but my underwear and biker boots.

Tilting my head back, I let my hair fall down over my shoulder, exposing the phoenix that curls over my back and ribs, coming up to lick at my neck. The camera clicks. Snow coats my skin, turning it rash red. Little flakes litter my hair, quickly melting. _Click_. Wrapping my arm over my breasts, I try and relax, stretching out. _Click_. My head falls back, hands coming up to encircle my neck. _Click_. Shaking fingers gently sweep my hair back over my shoulder, tilting my head off to the side. _Click_. Warm arms embrace me, hot breath creating a sheen of condensation against the nape of my neck.

It feels like an awakening. I can have him touch my bare skin without the hot pokers coming out to play. The gentle caress of his fingers against my arm sends my heart off like a horse at the gun. The walls begin to crumble as he hums against my neck, the vibrations raising blood to my cheeks. I can touch him and not feel dirty, not feel like I need to rub myself raw to get rid of the diseased mark. Perhaps, for this slice of a second, I can let the walls completely crumble, turning to sand to be swept away by the tide. His fingers tandle in mine and I'm throw back through time, lurching into myself. Perhaps not yet.

"Get dressed. You're shivering."

Once I'm clothes, Frank and I continue our walk. He keeps his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched up around his neck. Allowing me to ramble on, he keeps his eyes trained on the snow laid out before us. Sighing, I stop walking, Frank nearly running into me. "What?"

"Nothing," Frank shakes his head, forcing an innocent smile. His lips draw too harshly over his teeth, making it seem more like he's trying to growl at me.

Rolling my eyes, I rest my hand against my hip, "I'm not an idiot, Frank. You obviously have something to say."

Frank avoids making eye contact, staring off into the tree line behind me. He opens his mouth; quickly clamping it back shut as she shakes his head. His hands come out to play, fingers twisting together, tugging at the loose ends of hair handing over his face. Frank clears his throat a few times, lighting a cigarette before shrugging, "Why?"

"Why not?"

  
I get another pitiful headshake, Frank letting smoke flow out between pursed lips, "That's a bullshit answer, Ash."

"Why'd you come up and hug me, huh, Frank?" I shoot back.

Frank's lips go slack, cigarette billowing through the air, hitting the ground in a grey puff, "Why not?"

"See." Rolling my eyes, I give him a playful shove before continuing back toward the buses, "Why not?" 

He quickly follows behind, running his shoulder into mine, giving me a smile. This time it's real, his nose crinkling a little. Light shines behind his eyes, illuminating the golden flecks that littler the cloudy green, "Maybe - "

"Don't push you luck, Iero."

Frank slides a steaming cup of coffee and a bagel in front of me. As a thank you, I hold my arm up, allowing him to crawl underneath the blanket I have wrapped around my shoulders. Matt raises an eyebrow, but says nothing further, joining the others to come look at the photos. I worry what they'll say, what they'll think. These are unlike anything I've ever done before. Our artwork is usually all of us, or some graffiti all of us liked. Never this. Never this raw. Never just me.

"This is it," Ryan finally says, dragging the photo over into his editing software.

It's the last picture Frank took. My head is tilted off to the side, all but a few strands of hair brushed over my shoulder. One hand sits, covering my breast, the other tangled in my hair, casting a shadow over my face. Little snowflakes litter my hair, looking like sparkles against the purple backdrop. My phoenix tattoo, bright and colorful, stands out like a beacon against pale skin and white background. Ryan turns the photo black and white. Going back in, he brings the tattoo to life, adding in little tendrils of smoke. He edits out the trees, making the background an inky black. As a final touch, he adds in the album name, From the Ashes, in thick, Old English script.

"What does everyone think?" Ryan spins the laptop around so that Matt and Andrew can see the editied image.

Andrew's fingers play over the screen, tracing the images before he looks up, smiling. Matt remains quiet, eyes never leaving the image that stares back up at him. For a few painful seconds, I think he's going to scrap it. Another idea throw down the drain. Not good enough. Doesn't capture what we're going for. Too much. Instead, he rubs his eyes, looking at Frank.

"She let you take those?"

Frank nods, picking at the skin around his fingers, "Yeah."

"I see," Matt's eyes linger on Frank for a moment before settling back on the computer screen. My brother nods slowly, chewing at his lip. Finally, he looks to me, eyes glassy, "It's perfect."

Smiling at my brother, I give his hand a squeeze. Now for my next idea. I think this one will go over a bit better. No nakedness, at least not in a physical sense. This is an emotion, something we've put off doing for too long. "I want to put Ron on the CD. That picture we have where we're all sitting on the beach."

Matt nods, "Yeah. We should do that."

The show tonight is different, all of us filled with a renewed energy. Ron is here with us. I can feel him in every line, in every breat of the drum, in every kid cheering out in the crowd. The lights shine a bit brighter, the stage pulsing under my feet. Sitting down on the edge of the stage for the last song, I contemplate telling the story I have to share. Those people staring back at me aren't just faces in the crowd. They're family. They deserve to know. Taking in a shaky breath, I readjust the microphone.

"Uh - I don't know how many of you know this, but uh - Matt isn't my only brother," I begin strumming out the beginning to our final song. Ron's song. "Five years ago to the day, my younger brother Ronnie lost his battle with addiction. As a way to cope with that Matt and I wrote this song." The crowd roars as Matt walks out on stage, taking his place behind the drum set now moved to center stage. "Please, if you're struggling with alcohol or drugs or depression or anything, ask for help. Go to your parents or your siblings or anyone you trust and have the conversation. I promise that one awkward or painful conversation is worth it. This song is for you, Ronnie. I know you're here with us tonight in your own way. I love you, little brother." 


	19. Tattooed Tears

There isn't a dry eye in the whole arena as Ashley bows off stage. Tears cling to her cheeks, sparkling in the low backstage lighting. I try to keep the disappointment out of my eyes as she brushes past my extended hand, falling against her brother's chest. Matt rubs Ashley's back, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead before handing her off to Bert.

Fucking Bert. He whispers in her ear, his arms snaking easily around the singer's small frame. After a few seconds, Ashley is laughing, jokingly pushing Bert away from her before quickly pulling him back. They exhange a few pecks before Bert dashes off to take his place on stage. 

Ashley mingels with the others backstage, striking up a conversation with Lindsey who seems to shadow Gerard's every move. The girls talk and laugh, exhanging friendly touches. Gerard beams at them, a lopsided smile playing over his lips. I'm jealous. I'm jealous of the way Ashley can meld herself to situations. I'm jealous of how she can walk into any room and make people fall in love with her laugh and the breezy way she can talk about anything everything. No one is a stanger. No topic is off-limits. I miss that. We used to talk like that, laugh like that, exist like that.

I remember Ashley's apartment, nestled amongst oak trees, only about a block away from capus. We used to wake up early and get coffee. She'd walk me to class, always joking about how I was behind on papers or forgetting what building I needed to go to. Sometimes she'd just appear, popping up outside of my classtoom or waiting in my dorm bed. We'd dance and watch movies. Ashley would paint while I muddled through school stuff or wrote songs. We'd fall asleep next to each other, our bodies wrappinng tightly together. I could tell her anything, voicing my fears about the future, and not feeling like school was really for me.

We'd end up in tattoo shops, picking out something for the other to get. She encouraged me to do what I felt was right, even if everyone else disagreed. It never felt forced between us. Our conversations, our movements, our love...it all felt so natural. Like breathing or drinking water after a long run. We melded together, each promising the other the world. I wish I had been able to hold up my end of the bargain.

"This next song is a cover, but I can't do it alone," Bert's voice pulls Ashley's attention. She gives Gerard a quick squeeze before scurrying out onto stage.

Ashely beams as the crowd roars. As Bert explains the meaning behind doing the cover, a piano is wheeled out onto stage. Sitting down, I rest my chin on my knuckles. Ashley's hands shake as her fingers dust over the piano keys. Taking in a deep breath, she lets it out like thunder in the microphone. Ashely's soft voice lifts into the rafters, the words spilling delicately from trembling lips. The crowd is eerily quiet, errupting into cheers as Bert's low, gravely voice mixes with Ashley's.

By the second verse, she's in tears, her pain dripping freely down her face and bouncing against the keys. Her words come out in forced belts, pressing too hard or too softly against the piano. As Ashely whispers out the last words, she falling into Bert's waiting arms. He gives her a long hug, kissing her forehead before addressing the crowd.

I don't hear anything he says as Ashley blows past me, the stage door slamming behind her. Lindsey looks to Gerard for an explanation. The singer shakes his head, frowning, "I'll go after her."

"No," I press my hand into his chest, blocking his path. "No. I'll go."

Gerard lets out a defeated sigh, nodding his head as he turns back to Lindsey. Sure, Gerard and Ashley are friends. She'd be happy to see him out there. He doesn't get it though. He didn't know Ronnie. If I know Ashley, which I do, she'll want someone to laugh with . She'll want to take a trip down memory lane. Gerard just can't do that for her. For once, I feel needed; like I can be the guy she wants me to be.

Pulling out a cigarette, I push out the back door of the venue, rounding the corner. Ashley is squatted down, back leaning against the brick facade. She Clutches desperately to her own cigarette, her whole body shaking.

"Ash?"

Glassy eyes stare through me, her hand reaching out to take mine. Dropping to my knees, I gently brush the hair from her face, shrugging out of my jacket. Ashley accepts it, allowing me to drape the wramed material around her. We sit in silence for a while before Ashley chuckles, sniffing to clear her nose. She wipes at her face, lighing another cigarette. I continue to gently rub her back, waiting for her to say something. Maybe she'll ask me to leave, maybe she won't. Either way, I was here for her when she needed someone. That's got to mean something.

"That was his favorite song," she sniffs again. "We used to sit in the back of the van and just sing it over and over. I should've been there. We shouldn't have gone on tour. He needed us and we just left him. Sometimes I think that if we stayed, if we had been there, he wouldn't have died." Another uncomfortable chuckle. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. You don't care."

Frowning, I shake my head, giving the singer a one-armed hug, "I do care, Ash. I care a lot. That's your brother. You love him. You can't beat yourself up about his death though. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't Ron's either...not really."

"Do you remember that night we all snuck into the Rain Room to see Archers of Loaf?"

"When Ron got thrown over the bar by the bouncer and got glass stuck in his face?"

Ashley laughs, letting her head rest against my arm, "Yeah and none of us had health insurance so we had to use vodka and tweezers to get it all out. He was whining like such a baby and just kept telling us to leave it."

"He bit me," I tug my sleeve up, revealing a light pink scar.

Calloused fingers trail over a tattoo on my arm, her eyes far away, "You let him tattoo you. That was the first one he ever did on a real person." Ashley tugs at the neck of her shirt, revealing a black and grey heart with big eyes and a teardrop. The opposite to mine; a heart wearing a learge, almost creepy smile. "I'm surprised you haven't gotten it covered."

"What?" I scoff, shaking my head as I smile down at her. "I love this piece of shit. I'd never get it covered."

Ashley shakes her head, tugging out yet another cigarette. She's going to end up killing herself with how much she smokes, "I could fix it for you. He taught me how. I've got a machine with me."

"Maybe," I smile fondly down at the heart tattoo. Ronnie begged me for months to let him tattoo me. It came out pretty much how I expected. The lines are jagged, one hump of the heart sticking up higher than the other. The teeth aren't straight and it kind of looks cross-eyed. I still love it though. It reminds me of all the van nights and our drunken shenanigans. It reminds me of a much simpler time when all any of us cared about was the music and friendship. "Maybe I'll let you do a totally different one. I've got a nice spot on my thigh that needs filled." 

"I'm thinking a big old penis," Ashley laughs, sticking her tongue out at me. "With really hairy balls."

I shove her playfully, shaking my head vigorously as I laugh, "There is no way in hell I'm letting you come anywhere near me with that machine now."

Ashley's face falls, "I miss him, Frank. All the damn time."

I give her another quick squeeze as footsteps near us, "I miss him too."

"Frank," Ray's head pokes around the corner of the building. He wears a small frown, eyes downcast, "We gotta go on."

Ashley nods, beginning to shrug out of my coat. I stop her with a hand on the shoulder, "Keep it. I'll get it later."


	20. The Next Best American Record

Pete shakes his head, shoving his hands into his back pockets. Mikey hovers behind him, fingers drumming against Pete's shoulder, "I don't know. They got into some big fight and then he just ran away. People are out looking for him."

"I've tried calling him, but he won't answer. I just keep getting voicemail," Mikey frowns, the expression harsh on his youthful features. "He's been so fucking moody lately."

Sighing, I begin to pull on my shoes, lacing them quickly. Frank gets mopey, but I've only heard of him running away a handful of times. He's usually one to sulk in the background, licking his wounds in hopes someone will question him. "I'll go look. I might know where he went." 

Being at the same venue for a few nights in a row has its perks. I know where everything is. I've found out everyone's favorite spots to try and hide away from the chaos taking place around us. Pushing through the red emergency door, I mount the rusting metal ladder leading up to the roof of the venue. Frank sits with his back to me, a cloud of smoke creating a halo around his jet-black hair. We came up here last night to look at the stars and watch the snowfall. We talked about Ronnie and old times for hours before our fingers grew numb and our bodies shook so badly we could barely get back to the buses. I'm glad Pete came to me. I'm not sure the others would have thought to look up here.

"This whole running away shtick is pretty fucking childish, Frank."

The guitarist keeps his back to me, shoulders rising and falling in a shrug, "He's getting married."

"What?" I drop down next to Frank, unsure if I heard him correctly. There was never any talk of marriage. Where the hell is this coming from? This better not be some kind of pity ploy to try and rope me into one of his twisted games. "When?"

"Right now. He's getting married right now to Lindsey. That girl who flew out to spend some time with him. That girl who is just a friend. The one he's known for less than a month."

"He's known her longer than that."

Frank turns to face me. His cheeks are stained with tears, eyes puffy. Frank spits, shaking his head, "Barely. I guess now he won't get hurt. He bailed before that could ever happen."

I want to lash out, ask how it feels to get an unhealthy dose of his own screwed up medicine. I can't find that much venom inside though. I can see the way his jaw quivers, the way his fingers work angrily at eyes that grow glossier by the second. I watch as he curls into himself, rocking back and forth, his body desperately trying to dispel the emotions coursing through it; eating it alive. Frank's hurt and not just in a sleep it off and move on type of way. It all hits me at once, my knees giving out, my butt hitting the cold metal of the roof. My head spinning, I have to suck in deep breaths, forcing myself not to vomit. All this time I thought it was Gerard who was head over heels for Frank. I was wrong. Frank isn't just using Gerard to play out some twisted fantasy. Frank loves Gerard. Like rip my heart out, take a bullet for you, till death do us part love.

"Fuck."

"Yeah, fuck," Frank snarls back. "Do you wanna know how many times he said that would be us? How many times we'd get off stage and barely make it back to the bus? And then what? All of a sudden I'm not enough? He's worried about what people will say? He isn't sure if that's really who he is? I helped save his life! I sat through all the bullshit! I was there for him when no one else could stand to be in the same room as him! I gave up so many opportunities, gave him all the time and space he needed to figure his feelings out. I humped his face on stage and now he's throwing me out like last week's trash!"

"Frank," I gently push my palm to his heaving chest, trying to capture the fire burning behind his eyes in mine. "You wanna drink about it?"

As he sits there, shaking under my touch, tears being to spill down his face. The shell of a once vibrantly alive man. "Yeah." He nods, allowing me to help him to his feet. "Yeah, I do."

"Okay," I lead us down the ladder. "Let's drink about it."

The bus is empty when we get back. I deposit Frank on the couch, beginning to rip open the cabinets in search of alcohol. There's three bottles of gin, hald a bottle of Fireball, and about fifteen beers. I pull the cans of diet Coke from the mini-fridge, placing everything on the table. Frank has already moved for the gin, drinking it straight from the bottle. After a few gulps, he pushes it away, nose crinkling. "That shits nasty."

"It's cheap. Mix it with soda. It tastes better. I've also got orange juice if you want."

"Yeah, give me the orange juice."

I sit down in the aisle, watching in mute horror as Frank dumps at least hald the bottle of gin straight into the orange juice container. He screws the lid back on, shaking the mixture up. This suddenly feels like it might not have been the best idea. I mean, yeah, Frank and I are slowly starting to talk again. I'm trying to let him in. I'm just not quite sure I'm ready to take on something like this. Frank is vulnerable, hurt. I don't want him to get drunk and try to bring up the past. There are no nice, comforting words that I can say about what happened. I can't just tell him it's okay because he's already in pain. Why do I always get myself into these situations? Why do I have this weak spot for fucking Frank Iero? The answer is there, sitting at the tip of my tongue, warming my heart. I chase it down with burning cinnamon. I'm not ready to face that yet, maybe ever.

"I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

"Well," I pick up the orange juice bottle, shaking it around, "Seems as you've turned my breakfast into a cocktail, I'm going over to Patrick's bus to get more." 

"You said you were gonna drink with me," Frank pouts.

"And I will. I'll only be gone a few minutes. Find something on the TV."

Sliding out of the bus, I stomp across the parking lot, not even bothering to knock on the My Chem bus door before ripping it open. Gerard and Lindsey sit cuddled together on the couch, giggling softly. Grabbing the singer by the arm, I yank him up, pulling him back down the bus steps and slamming him up against the side of the vehicle.

"What the hell was that?" I demand. "I told you to talk to him, not throw a fit on stage and then go off and get married!"

Gerard blinks back at me, shrugging, "I was feeling dramatic."

"Dramatic! Are you drunk?"

"I resent that question."

The bus door swings open, Lindsey wandering out, "Is everything okay?"

"Everything is fine," I talk over Gerard. "Do you guys have orange juice?"

Lindsey nods, her eyes sliding over to Gerard, eyebrow crooked up. He shrugs, gesturing for her to go back inside.

"Do you need the orange juice?" Lindsey questions.

"Yeah. Bring it out here."

She disappears, coming back a few seconds later with a full carton, handing it over. Once she's disappeared back into the bus, I turn my attention back to Gerard, "I hope you're really happy. I hope destroying him was what you really wanted."

"Don't pretend like you care, Ash."

Rolling my eyes, I flip Gerard off before stalking back to my bus. Frank is still on the couch, cradeling his drink, flipping through channels. Tucking the orange juice in the fridge, I pick up the bottle of Fireball, taking a long swing, "Alright, lets drink."

Hours later we both dance up and down the bus, singing off-key to the music that pumps through the bus speakers. Empty beer cans litter the floor. An abandoned puzzle sits, half made, on the table. Cards scatter the couch and I'm certain that will never be a full deck ever again. Frank's tears morph into laughter, both of us faling into each other as our socked feet lose grip on the slippery floor. Frank wraps his arms around me, dipping my body towrds the ground before quickly pulling me back to his chest. Our giggles twist and twine above us, creating a bubble of comfort.

I really did miss nights like this. Frank and I would get almost too drunk to stand, putting on living room concerts. I'd climb on top of the coffee table, belting out old punk songs. Frank would clap and wold whistle, picking me up and spin me around the room. We'd dance and flirt, eventually falling into bed. He was always so sweet and gentle. It was never just about him. Frank would bring me coffee in the morning, quietly playing guitar to help chase away my hangover. He was constantly showering me with presents, showing up with flowers or candy or little action figures. Even after I moved to California, he made the trip religiously, often draining his bank account just to spend a few days with me. I rented a shitty studio apartment, spending months in Jersey as he went to school. We really were magic. 

Frank lounges against the couch, cigarette held lazily between his fingers. He looks at me through his eyelahses; the usual gold-green hues in his eyes have mixed into deep seductive amber. Frank rugs at his bottom lip, tongue flicking out to catch a few drops of alcohol there. As he continues to hold me trapped in his hypnotic stare, his lips twist up into a smirk.

"Don't look at me like that."

Frank's smirk only grows, a playful glisten sparkling in his gaze. His words come out in a husky whisper, "Like what?"

"Like you're the hottest guy in the fucking universe and you know it."

Frank lets out a snort, taking a long drag from his cigarette. He shakes his head, grinning, his cheeks a bright red.

"We used to be amazing, Ashley. I miss that," Frank slurs, moving his plastic gingerbread man to the next green spot on the game board. "I miss you being my friend."

Frowning, I draw a card. I know this is coming from a place of hurt. Frank lost Gerard in the most permanent way. He's trying to latch on to something, anything. The past is a welcoming hug, an escape from the pains of my life. In the morning he'll forget all of this. We'll go back to the way we were; tentative, two kids trying to feel each other out. He doesn't really want this back. Frank's just sad. He's trying to skip the healing stage. Chewing at my bottom lip, I decide to just tell him the truth.

"See, that's the thing. I miss it too. I want to let you back in. I want to crawl back into that world we created for each other, but I can't. I don't trust you not ot burn it all down again. I just don't."

Frank frowns, taking my face in his hands. His skin is warm against mine, little pricks of electricity bouncing between us. "You're a phoenix, Ashley. You rose from the ashes."

"I'm not sure I have it in me, Frank." I press my hand against his, our fingers sliding together. "This time, if you walked out again, it would kill me. Even a pheonix can only rise so many times."

His forehead is resting against mine now, eyelashes tickling my skin, "Can I earn it back? Your trust?"

"I don't know," I let out a shaky sigh, "but you can try."

And then his lips are pressing against mine. And he tastes like orange juice and cigarettes. And my fingers tangle in his hair because I know this is a bad idea but the alcohol coursing through my veins is telling me not to stop. And I know we'll both regret this in the morning, but that doesn't seem to matter right now. His skin feels so good against mine, fire licking at every inch his fingers brush over. I welcome the familiar curves of his body curling into mine. I drink him in, our tongues dancing against one another. My head screams at me to put an end to this, to push him away, to tell him he's drunk and hurting and that this is a fucking terrible, friendship ending idea. My heart and body push me forward, begging for more.

Just as the whole world starts to crumble down around us, Frank pulls away. He stares at me through wide, bloodshot eyes. His chest, bare and glistening with sweat, heaves. He opens and shuts swollen lips. Shaking fingers tug through rumpled hair. Frank's voice craks as he tries to talk, "I - I'm sorry."

"No," I press my fingertips to a deep bruise forming at the base of Frank's neck. "No. It's okay."

Frank begins to gather this things, tugging his shirt back on, "I should go."

"No." I catch his hand in mine, tugging him back. "Stay. At least for the night. Don't leave."

He nods, slumping back down on the couch. His arms find their way around me, holding me tightly to his chest. I listen to his heart hammering against his chest. Frank's fingers run up and down my arms, tracing over the tattoos inked there. I know it should feel wrong. I should feel guilty and dirty. I should hate myself for letting it go there. But I can't. Everything about this feels so right. The wya we settle against each other. The way Frank keeps pressing his face into my hair, his lips dusting against the exposed skin of my neck. Maybe we did ruin everything. Maybe there will be no coming back from this. For now, it feels like we just made the best fucking decision in our lives. I don't want to fight that.

"Let me tattoo you," I twist around on the couch, giving Frank a smile.

Frank doesn't even protest as I drag him toward the back lounge. As I gather everything, he flips through the CDs and other clutter strewn across the desk and couch. Frank plucks a plain envelope from amongst the others, flicking the little plastic window. "Is this it?"

"Huh?" I lay a garbage back over the couch, taping the ends down with a spare roll of medical tape. "Oh yea, that's the rouch mix of the new album. All but one song."

"I thought it was done," Frank pops the CD into the computer's disc drive, clicking around for a few seconds before my voice fills the small space.

Shaking my head, I unwrap a new set of needles, "There's only twelve. I was hoping for thirteen." I flash Frank the tattoo on my wrist; a thriteen in block numbers. Matt and Ron have one on their wrists too.

"Lucky number thriteen," Frank nods, drumming his fingers in time with Ryan's guitar. He'll be the first person outside of the band that's heard close to the finished project. My skin feels too hot, fingers beginning to cramp up. Most of the songs are about our relationship. I'm not sure I want to be sat across from him as he realizes that.

"You really hate me, huh?" Frank raises an eyebrow, tilting his head toward the computer screen.

Over the track a phone rings, metallic and whiny. Once. Twice. My voice cracking out, clearing my throat before the punch. It started as a joke, taken from my scrapped idead of album titles. Andrew and Ryan thought it was funny enough to put as the opener to the whole record. I wince as the words come over the speakers. _It's New Jersey, they'd like their asshole back_. Andrew's heavy scream breaks through the dial tone, the drums and guitar picking up. 

All I can do is motion for him to come over to the couch, "I'm not going to apologize for what those songs say."

"I'm not asking you to," Frank strips down to his boxers. "They aren't all like that, are they?" 

I being to sketch out a little bar in the empty part of his thigh, "No. Not at the end."

This seems to comfort him. Frank relaxes against the couch, watching through lidded eyes as I continue my drawing. Once he's approved, I pull out the ink. The track switched, Ryan's whine ringing out over a bass line. This one is Matt's baby. He spent days in the back of the bus trying to get his part right. The three of us sing about corporate greed and songs written just to put noise out there. It talks about mass consumption and giving the finger to those who are just out to take. Most of all, it's about addiction and never being able to get enough. Frank seems to enjoy this one more, closing his eyes and humming along as the chorus kicks in again.

"Are you sure you're sober enough to do this?" Frank questions as I switch the machine on, the buzzing drowned out by the music.

I brush his hand away, touching needle to skin, "Trust me."

Frank's fingers curl around my wrist, honey green capturing my attention. Slowly, he sits forward. Once again his lips brush mine, lingering for only a second. "Wholeheartedly."


	21. Cigarette

My limbs are stiff, joints popping as I try and stretch out. My fingers brush against soft fabric and smooth skin. My head throbs, vision blurry as I blink sleep from my eyes. Unfamiliar pictures and sketches slowly come into focus. Sitting with a jolt, I hear something hit the floor with a low moan. Rubbing furiously at my eyes, I try and remember where I am. Why an I in my boxers? God my fucking leg hurts. Achy fingertips play over plastic as I go to alleviate the pain. Horrified, I rip away the bandage. Please don't let it be something stupid. Please.

A brown bat with fangs. Little drops of blood fall from its mouth. The person on the floor begins to stir. Lilac peaks over the top of a fluffy skull blanket. Ashley. Fuck. Last night comes flooding back. 

I kissed her. She kissed me. I need to get out of here. Last night we were drunk, no inhibitions, no thought to the consequences. She hates me. She's going to hate me even more once she wakes up and remembers everything. How could I fuck this up so royally? Oh, God. Gerard. Gerard is married. I can't face him. Not like this. Not with her there by his side. My stomach churns and I make a mad dash to the bathroom. Hugging the metal bowl, I empty the contents of my stomach into the clear water. Why am I such an idiot? Why can't I leave well enough alone? We were starting to become friends again. There will be no going back now. Ashley is going to put her walls back up. She's going to slam the door in my face. 

A knock on the bathroom door pulls my attention, temporarily stopping the spiral I'm headed for, "Frank?"

Fuck. Ashley. My heart speeds up, stomach lurching again. "Go away!"

"Frank," Ashley whines back. Did she - was that a laugh? "Can I please come in? I don't care if you're all pukey. I've got coffee."

Before I can respond, the door is being opened, hitting against my ankles, "Ashley, please, just go."

"Nope." She squeezes through the small crack, shutting the door before sitting down against it. Ashley smiles as I slump against the opposite wall, accepting the coffee and water bottle she's offering. None of this can be real. "You pushed me off the couch."

Taking a swig of water, I slosh it around in my mouth, spitting into the toiler, "You gave me a bat tattoo."

"Yes," Ashley gives me a pointed look. "And?"

I take a few sips of coffee, letting the warmth settle my stomach, giving me new life. Maybe we're okay. Maybe Ashley isn't mad I kissed her last night. Maybe she doesn't remember yet. I wish I could recall more of our conversation. She said something about not trusting me and something about trying. We listened to her record. God, is it amazing. Angry and at times painful to listen to, but so fucking beautiful.

" _And_ I'm sorry I pushed you off the couch," I grumble back. "In my defense, I wasn't expecting you to be there."

Ashley shakes her head, giving me a chuckle, "Strange as you were the one who asked me to stay there with you, but I guess I'll forgive you. How's your head feeling? Do you want Asprin? I can get you some more water. Maybe a bagel. Carbs help."

"You're mothering. I should probably go back to the bus, let everyone know I'm okay."

I deflate, teeth going to work against my cheek. The last thing I want to do is face everyone this morning. I can't stand the cold shoulder, the inability to even look at each other. I don't want to have to see Gerard happy, wrapped around Lindsey like she's some kind of trophy. My heart sinks, each beat painful and forced. Nothing will ever be the same. Not only have I lost the man I love, but I've lost a best friend, a confidant, someone who truly gets me. I've lost a future, a thing that once looked bright and hopeful now looks just as bleak as a New Jersey sky in winter. All my dreams, the memories we could have made, shot down with two little words.

"I already caled them. They know you're here," Ashley rests her palm against my knee. For the first time, I see a flame, similar to the one etched into my chest. The edges are red and puffy, scabs already beginning to form. "You don't have to go back yet, not if you don't want to."

My fingers play over the tattooed spot on Ashley's thumb, "Did I do that?"

Deep blue eyes peel away from me, landing on the inked area. She gives me a smile, "You said we'd match."

"You let me?"

Ashley sighs, scooting around so she's now sitting next to me. Her head rests against my shoulder. She accepts the arm I curl around her. We pass the coffee back and forth, "I'm trying. I thought maybe this would help me remember to do that."

"Ashley, I'm sorry. I know that will never fix what happened, but I'm so fucking sorry. I was an idiot. You didn't deserve any of that, what I said, the way I treated you. I should've said sooner. Sometimes I can be a moron."

The singer raises an eyebrow, "Sometimes?" Her face falls, the sparkle draining from her eyes as her lips contort into a frown. "I wasn't enough. I wasn't what you wanted. You went and got what you wanted. We both said things we didn't mean."

"You thought you weren't enough?" Her words hit me like a train. "Ashely, I pushed you away because I loved you, because when I thought of my future you were the only thing I saw, because I couldn't bear to be away from you for even a second, and that scared the shit out of me. I was twenty. You were eighteen. I didn't know how to handle wanting to get married and have a family. Gerard felt safe. He was fun. He didn't stir up any confusion. He didn't push me like you did. The truth is, I hurt you to protect myself." I gather her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me. "I've regretted it every day since." 

Ashley's eye bubble over with tears, her face disappearing into the crook of my neck. I hold her, delicately running my fingers through her tangled hair. In this moment, I know we'll be okay. Together we're going to come out on the other side of this, better people. We'll muddle through the past, each apologizing for harsh words. Ashley will find a way to trust me again, to let me back in. That tattoo on her finger tells me so. The way her tears run hot and slick down my skin lets me know she wants to try. Somehow we'll both heal. 

"Do you want to get breakfast? There's a diner about a block away."

Brushing a few tears from Ashley's cheeks, I nod. If she's willing to spend time with me I'm going to take it. I can face the chaos back on my bus later. I want to live in this comfortable bubble of friendship for as long as I'm allowed. If Ashley's going to try so am I. It'll be an uphill battle to win Ashley's full trust back and I know I need to do everything I can to show her I've changed. My heart tells me everything will be worth it in the end.

The toast, warm and crisy and perfectly buttered, helps to further calm my stomach. Across from me, Ashley drums her pencil against her notebook. The pancakes and coffee she ordered remain largely untouched. I always admired that about her. Ashley gets immersed in her art, throwing herself wholeheartedly into it. I used to find her still sitting, curled up in the armchair when I'd wake up in the morning. For a while, I would exist around her as she drew away from reality into a world in her head. Then, one day, the notebook would disappear and she'd be herself again, picking up right where she left off. It was oddly comforting, watching her strum out chords or quietly hum to herself. Ashley inspired me to start the process for myself.

"Can I see what you have?" I try and convey that I'll be okay with whatever her answer is, softening my eyes and giving her a friendly smile.

Ashley shrugs, pushing the notebook across the table. As I read she begins to eat, stretching out across the booth.

Clementine is scribbled across the top of the page in neat little letters. The ink there is smudged, almost like Ashley tried to rub the word from the paper. An image of Ashley and another girl flashes in my memory. Ashley's hair was jet black then and cut short. The girl hides behind her, a flash of bubblegum pink and sky blue. The lyrics themselves, written in sloppy cursive, talk of opening up to love too soon. They talk of sadness and regret. This is an apology.

"Clementine. That's the girl you dated. You were on the cover of that magazine."

Ashley nods at me over the top of her off-white coffee mug, "If you can call it dating. I was kind of an ass to her. I don't think that'll be a song that makes the album."

"Why?"

"It doesn't fit. I imagine it on piano or maybe an acustic guitar. The album is louder than that, angrier. It's not really a place for a love song if you can even call it that."

Thinking back to last night, I hear drumbeats, the lyrics. The album is angry, but it's also hopeful. The songs talk about tearing yourself apart and rebuilding as something new, something better and stronger. The soft notes of a piano could get lost in something that feels like a fast-paced car chase.

Ashley reaches out, flipping toward the front of the notebook. Two different handwritings stare at me, Ashley's mixed with sloppy, deep blacks, "I was thinking maybe this one. Ronnie and I wrote it together. We've tried recording it a few times. I don't think it sounds right with just one voice."

I finish my coffee as an idea whirls to life.


	22. Come On Over

Frank hovers in front of the bus door. His fingers curl around the knob only to be quickly pulled away as if to touch the door physically pains him. He bounces from foot to foot, chewing on the filter of his cigarette. While he's tried to put it off, Frank can't avoid his band forever. He's got to face what lays behind the door. They've got a show to play tonight. Not talking beforehand isn't an option.

"What am I supposed to say to him?"

"I can't tell you that."

I try and fight back the little pangs of sadness I feel for Frank right now. Gerard ended their relationship in the most permanent way. Frank is confused and hurting. I watched as the brave face he painted on began to chip. The longer the day drug on, the further Frank curled into himself. Finally, I made the decision for him, not able to look across the table at the shell of a man. With no more false words of encouragement left, I drug him back to his own bus. The tension and anxiety will only build if he doesn't face this. Not to mention the longer he's around me, the further I fall into his world. I'm not ready for that yet. I need more time. I need to figure things out. Having Frank there, joking and talking like old times, makes me want to forget. Forgetting is how I get hurt. For now, I need to keep the door locked, or at least the screen door of that door locked.

"I can't do this," Frank shakes his head, beginning to back away from the bus door.

Grabbing a handful of his jacket, I tug him back, "You _can_ , you just don't _want_ to. They're different. The longer you put it off the worse it's gonna be. So, put on your big boy pants and get on the fucking bus."

"You're very bossy," Frank pouts back, stalling for time.

Rolling my eyes, I give him a shove toward the door, "You'll thank me one day."

Frank's fingers once again curl around the handle, his hand remaining there as he looks back to me over his shoulder. His eyes are cloudy, arms twitching, "If this goes badly, I can come to your bus?"

Letting out a sigh, I shake my head, giving Frank a smile, "You need to get other friends."

"Is that a yes?"

Beginning to walk away, I give him a thumbs up over my head. If I don't leave he'll stand there forever.

Whatever happened, it must've not been great. Frank spills into the bus, hiding in the back. We don't talk, Frank distracting himself by tracing over my exposed tattoos. My skin burns, begging me to break the contact. I don't pull away though. He needs someone right now, the broken look on his face saying more than he ever could with words. Pulling Frank close to me, I rub circles into his limbs; quietly singing songs I know make him happy. He falls asleep curled around me, his face streaked with tears. We stay this way through the night and long into the next day, the bus rumbling down the road.

The days spill past. I find myself spending more and more time with Frank. We wander around the venues. We get breakfast and smoke cigarettes. We sit together on the couch at the front of my bus, playing games, writing songs, talking. We laugh and joke back and forth. Frank shares music, pointing out the new albums he loves and various lyrics he seems to connect with. Underneath everything, there's still sadness to him. I catch him crying, curled into himself in the back of the bus. He sits for hours at a time, scrolling through old pictures or reading their text conversations.

I try to be there for him, to distract him from the things he has no choice but to face every day. Together we're healing. That's terrifying. To allow him back in, to be relaxed and open, to start trusting him again. At the same time, it feels like being on fire. The hole in my heart, once raw and bleeding, is beginning to mend, little pieces growing back. Every time he looks at me or his fingers graze mine or we fall asleep on the couch together I feel the butterflies stir. I feel myself wanting to let him in. I want to throw the past away but the little voice in my head warns me against it. The voice talks of pain, of inevitable heartbreak. As the end of tour grows closer, I sit in limbo, too terrified to think about what happens after, too hopeful to tell Frank to fuck off.

"Ashley," Frank whines as I drag him through the snow. "It's cold."

"Maybe you should've worn a coat."

"I thought we were going to smoke, not taking a hike through Antarctica."

My abrupt stop causes Frank to careen into my back, his face burying itself in the crook of my neck, "I swear to God, Frank, if you don't stop whining like a little bitch...."

We still bicker, Frank often getting under my skin. That's nothing new though. He's done that since we met. He's whiny and needy and acts like a child. The difference is that there is no hate in the banter we shoot back and forth. We joke, giving the other a hard time. The words are meant in jest, not to cut the other down. I never realized how much I missed the play fighting until I got it back. It's easy, natural. I can relax into it, not worrying about finding the words to dig the knife in. We say the first things that pop into our minds, letting them hang in the air regardless of how ridiculous they sound.

"What are you gonna do?" Frank waggles his eyebrows at me, lips turning up into a devilish smirk. "You gonna punish me?"

Shaking my head, I move away from him. I gather an armful of snow, laughing at Frank's reaction as I dump it over his head. He lets out a squeak, his face scrunching up, tongue rolling out over his bottom lip. Frank shakes, trying to get the powder off of him. His eyes are wide as he turns to look at me, his hand going to his heart as if I've truly hurt his feelings.

"What the hell was that for?"

"You needed to cool down." Rolling my eyes, I drag him along, "Come on, it's not much further."

We reach the top of the hill just as the sun begins to dip below the tree line. Dusty orange, red, and yellow fill the sky, the buildings standing out ink-black against the colors. Unfolding the blanket I brought along, I lay it out over the snow-covered ground. Plopping down, I motion for Frank to join me. He grumbles a little, but I feel his body lean against mine seconds later. I think contact helps him feel better. Despite the nagging feeling that I'm letting all of this get out of hand too quickly. I do like being close to him. You never really realize how touch-deprived you are until someone starts touching you again.

"Why are we out here?" Frank inquires, lighting a cigarette.

I light my own smoke, taking a few drags before answers, "Being cooped up in the bus isn't good for you. You need to be out, get fresh air."

"I'm fine," Frank protests.

Frowning, I shake my head, "You aren't fine, Frank. You're drowning. I'm not the only one that sees it. You're not showering. It's all I can do to get you to eat. You're smoking through packs of cigarettes a day. I don't wanna sit and watch you self destruct."

"I don't need you to coddle me," Frank snaps back. "I'm fine. I don't need you or anyone else to take care of me. I can do it myself."

His harsh tone hurts, a lump forming in my throat. I know how he feels. I get wanting to just push everything away and forget. I understand wanting to put on a brave face. That doesn't work. It makes things worse. Trying not to feel the hurt and disappointment just makes it hurt more in the long run. It's weird seeing him in the position he put me in. I'm sure I should he happy that he's hurting, that he now knows how it felt when he shut me out. I can't though. I just feel sad. Frank's always been so full of life, so vibrant. Seeing the dark circles form around his eyes, watching his cheeks hollow out, seeing the way his fingers shake, it just makes me hurt for him. Frank believes so much in love, in family, in happily ever after. I don't want to see him lose that belief.

" _No._ You can't."

" _Yes_. I can." Frank answers through gritted teeth. His fingers clench and unclench, knuckles going white.

Sighing, I slip off my gloves, handing them over to Frank, "Fine." Gathering my cigarette pack, I stand, "Just follow the path back."

"Ashley, wait!" Frank scrambles to his feet, throwing his arms around my back. "I'm sorry. I just - I miss him. It hurts all the time."

Going limp against his touch, I twist around so I can face him. The tip of Frank's nose is bright red, snowflakes clinging to his hair and eyelashes. He stares back at me with glassy eyes, sniffing a few times before resting his forehead against my shoulder, "Let me help you. Stop pushing me away."

"You shouldn't be nice to me."

"You're right," His head shoots up at my words, eyes wide, teeth working against chapped lips. "I shouldn't. You're a pain in the ass. You're the neediest person I've ever met. But you make me laugh and you can be incredibly sweet and caring. You trust people. You let them in even when they don't deserve it. I don't want to watch you grow bitter. So, let me help you."

Frank's face relaxes, his fingers finding their way in between mine, "I'm sorry, Ash."

"I know." I pet his hair. "I know."

We stand silently for a long time, the wind whistling around us, snow dancing in the fading light. If someone told me I'd end this tour standing on a hill with my arms around Frank Iero, I would've punched them. I never intended to let him back in. I was content to keep up the distance, to keep hating him for what he did. Hate breeds demons though. It makes you feel dirty and slimy. It coats your insides with thick, black oil that no amount of drinking or sex or ignorance can ever clear. It makes you question every conversation. It makes you wonder if other people around you, even people you love, are going to stab you in the back. Hating someone else makes you hate yourself. I spent so long doing that already. I don't want to do it anymore.

Breathing in Frank's scent, Irish Spring, old books, and cigarettes, I let the hate go. I forgive him. I forgive Frank for being scared. I forgive him for pushing me away. I forgive him for being young and not knowing what he wanted. I forgive myself.

"Wanna roll down the hill?"

My voice startles Frank, his body jerking away from mine, "What?"

"The hill. Do you wanna roll down it?"

"What's it gonna do?"

I shrug, "Make you happy?"

"Fuck it," Frank breaks away from me, lying down across the snow. "Can't make me sadder."


	23. The Greatest

I don't want to love Ashley. Loving her feels like cheating on Gerard. Even having to hear his muffled moans and watching him float around behind Lindsey, it still doesn't feel real. It still doesn't feel like he isn't mine anymore. My soul feels like it's been torn in two. Being around Ashley makes the pain better. I can forget for a while. Being around Gerard makes me feel sick. My stomach ties itself in knots, the hand clamping down around my throat, making it hard to breathe. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I don't want to forget how his skin felt against mine. I don't want to replace the fireworks that erupted inside anytime he'd press his lips against mine. I know I need to let him go. It's what I need to do to heal, to stop feeling like my whole world is falling apart. I'm scared to though. I'm scared that if I keep growing closer to Ashley she'll make me forget completely.

I can't stay away from her though. As the end of tour grows closer, I find myself clinging to her. My palms get sweaty and my heart races when I think about what will happen when we aren't on the road anymore. Being around her is like a drug. I don't want it, I know it's bad, but I crave it. I need to hear her laugh, see her eyes light up. I need to feel her brush up against my skin. I need to feel her heartbeat, to curl my arms around her as I drift off to sleep. Watching her move through the world, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, playing guitar, it all makes me feel comfortable.

All these feelings bounce around inside, driving me crazy. With two shows left in the tour, with only five days to figure it all out, I turn to Ray. He's detached. He won't take a side. He'll let me ramble and then he'll tell me his honest opinion. Ray has always been a voice of reason for the band. He sees things objectively, helping make decisions that work for everyone.

He's quiet for a long time after I lay everything out. The guitarist sips his coffee, nodding to himself. Ray mumbles under his breath, asking a few questions to clarify details. I wish he would say something, anything, about what he's thinking. Hell, he could start yelling at me and telling me I'm a fucking idiot. I just can't sit in this silence anymore. It makes my skin crawl, fingers twitching, itching for a bottle I no longer have.

"How does being around Gerard feel? Not before. Right now?" Ray finally asks, setting his mug down, his fingers lacing together.

The look in his rich chocolate eyes calms me down. He's here to listen. He's not here to judge or tell me I'm being ridiculous. "Sad. Rejected. Not enough. Angry. Betrayed. It hurts, not just in my heart or head, but in my whole body, like I got ran over."

"Okay. How does being around Ashley make you feel?"

I smile as her face flashes before my eyes. Absentmindedly, I reach down to touch the stop she tattooed through my jeans. "Warm. Safe. Cared for. Free." My eyebrows jam together. "But also terrified. Uncertain. Nervous. My heart beats so fucking fast around her."

"Explain more," Ray prompts.

Taking a few sips of my own coffee, I try and sort through my emotions, trying to get them into words that describe just how I'm feeling; "She's like the first sip of coffee in the morning. The way the crows screams the lyrics back to you. Falling into your own bed after sleeping on the crappy bus bunks. The way a new instrument feels in your hand. She's also like the drop of a roller coaster, ya know, like when your stomach goes into your mouth. She's like standing at the train station when you don't know where you're going. Like waking up after drinking and not knowing where you are. She's like standing in an unfamiliar town and feeling so lost, but like for some reason you're exactly where you need to be. She's Ashley. She's all of life's little wonders wrapped into a beautifully broken package."

"I think you have your answer, Frank."

Frowning, I stare down into the muddy coffee, "I don't want to forget him."

"You don't have to forget him. Gerard is always going to be there," Ray slides a hand across the table, squeezing mine. "You do need to forget that _time_ you spend together though. You need to forget that you loved him, at least for now. If you don't I don't think you'll ever feel better. You'll live in the could have beens and that's dangerous, Frank."

"What if she doesn't want me," I mumble, chewing on the inside of my cheek. "What if she's just trying to make it through tour and never wants to see me again?"

Ray shakes his head, "I don't know her as well as you. From what you've described, she doesn't seem like someone who would do everything she has if she didn't care. Be gentle with her though. I'm sure it's scary for her too. She's probably still hurt and confused. Remember that she's felt the same way you do right now. You've got a temper, Frank, don't let that cloud your vision. Don't get angry with her because she's pushing you."

"Thanks, Ray."

The guitarist gives me a warm smile, once again giving my hand a squeeze, "I'm sorry about Gerard. If I had known, I would've told you. I'm not impressed with how he handled the situation."

"Yeah," my face falls, "me either."

"Go get your girl," Ray gestures for me to get up. "Be happy. Everyone deserves that."

~~~~~

Ashley sits on the stage; gently strumming the guitar I bought her. Her voice is soft, floating up to the rafters, mixing in with the dust motes circling around her. For a while I just look at her, admiring. Ashley is one of the strongest people I know. She's crawled her way up to the top, overcoming every obstacle thrown her way. She still shines so brightly. She still tries to see the good in people.

"I'm surprised you didn't smash that thing to bits," I announce my presence, hoisting myself up onto the stage.

Ashley grins, rolling her eyes as she continues playing, "Yeah well, I would've, but it's expensive as fuck."

  
"That the only reason?"

The singer shakes her head, letting out a sigh as she sets the instrument aside, "And it's really fucking pretty. It plays like nothing else. I love this stupid guitar. It's the best gift you ever got me."

"You're really fucking pretty," I clamp my hand over my mouth, cheeks burning. Goddammit, I need to learn to keep my mouth shut. My heart pounds in my chest, eyes now glued to the peeling piece of masking tape on the ground.

Ashley snorts, "Are you drunk?"

"No," I mumble back, refusing to look up.

Ashley starts playing again, the chords familiar. Her voice cuts through the silence, our lyrics spilling from her lungs. I'm taken back to the basement of her California home. The song was an accident, written while we were both incredibly drunk. It turned into our first single. People loved the sweet sentiments behind the rather raunchy lyrics. The song itself sounds like it's about sex, which it is, but it's about love and being unsure of what to do when it's presented to you. Ashley sings her line over and over, nudging me with her knee.

"Don't leave me hanging, asshole. I know you know the words. You fucking wrote it."

Shaking my head, I gain enough confidence to look back up. Ashley smiles over at me, her nose scrunching up as she catches me staring, "You just wanna hear me moan."

"No. Believe me, if I wanted that there are better ways than this."

My whole face burns, electricity running through my body at her words. I keep her gaze captured in mine, looking at her from under my eyelashes. Leaning up onto my hands and knees, I drag myself closer to her. I watch as her gaze falters, cheeks burning red as I run my tongue over my bottom lip, pulling it in between my teeth. I stop with my face inches from hers, Ashley's breath hot against my cheeks.

"Promise?"

I smirk as goosebumps explode over Ashley's neck, my insides fluttering.

"Am I interrupting something?" His voice echos in my ears; nails on a chalkboard.

Ashley spins away from me, her hair whipping across my face as she turns to look at Bert, "No. Frank and I were just fucking - we were just hanging out."

The singer blushes again, hiding her face behind her hands as she realizes her poor choice of words. I stifle a laugh, trying not to show just how adorable it is to see Ashley all flustered over a simple interaction. Usually I'm the one stumbling over my words, unable to come up with a decent response to Ashley's sexual comments. It's fascinating to see the tables turned. My heart swells, a wave of pride rushing through me. I can make her feel those things. The bubble of hope grows.

Bert narrows his eyes, crossing his arms across Ashley's chest, holding her tightly to him as she stands up, "This better not become a pattern, Iero."

"What better not become a pattern?" I snap back, in no mood for his games.

He smiles devilishly down at Ashley, pressing his lips possessively to her still blushed cheek, "You trying to steal what's mine."

"If I recall correctly, you were the one that dropped Gerard."

"He just wasn't much fun sober," Bert hisses back, wincing against Ashley's elbow to the ribs. The pain doesn't seem to deter him, his words continuing to twist the dagger into my heart, "He was so much better drunk. He loved it rough, moaning underneath me for more. That's probably why he left you. That fucking _girl_ is more of a man that you'll ever be. I bet you couldn't get him off."

Inadequate. Not enough. Weak. Pathetic. The words start up an endless cycle in my brain, eating away at me. He's right. I wasn't enough. I couldn't give Gerard what he wanted

"Bert Edward McCracken!" The sound of flesh making contact pulls my attention. Ashley has moved away from him, her hand still raised, the side of Bert's face left red and puffy. "Shut up!"

"What the hell, Ash?" I'd be lying if I said the look of betrayal in Bert's eyes wasn't the most satisfying thing I've seen in a long time.

Ashley crosses her arms over her chest; jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, "Don't you dare talk about things you don't understand. I don't _ever_ want to hear his name come out of your mouth again." She relaxes a little, shaking her head. "Now, are we getting lunch or not?"

My heart sinks as Bert throws his arm over Ashley's shoulder. She sinks into his side, gently rubbing her fingers over his marked skin. Bile rises in my throat as I watch them walk away, Bert shooting me a nasty look before pressing his lips to Ashley's temple. My knuckles scream in protest as I hit them into the stage, Bert mouthing _mine,_ before whisking Ashley away. I need to find Patrick.

~~~~~

"What?" Patrick leans against the open bus door, body blocking my view into the main area.

I stumble over my words; heart racing as I begin to realize this might not have been the best idea. Patrick is one of Ashley's best friends. He knows what happened between us. He's got every reason to hate my guts. Once again, I'm standing in front of someone who sees me as the bad guy, the guy who ruined the perfect girl. "I uh - I need your help. With Ashley."

"What about Ashley?" Patrick's eyes narrow.

My fingers twitch, begging to scratch at that spot on the back of my neck. I shove them deep into my pockets, trying to steady my nerves. I'm trying to do something nice, something to make Ashley feel special. I'm not here to hurt anyone or make them angry. I'm trying to fix things. "I want to set up a dinner. Just for us. Something simple but that'll still make her feel special."

"Why?"

"I miss her. I - " I clamp my lips shut, hiding them behind my hand. I'm trying to get Patrick to help. Saying too much right now might not be the best idea. I'm not ready to speak those feelings into existence.

The singer drops down a step, leaning in closer. I feel like a bug under a microscope, pinned down and unable to get away from the scrutinizing stares. "Do you miss her or do you just miss having sex? I'm sure we have some pron stashed in the back. I could get you that."

"I miss her. If I wanted sex I could go out and get it. I miss Ashley. I know I fucked up. I'm trying to fix it."

Something in what I've said must've gotten through because Patrick's face softens, his back returning to the bus door, "What's your idea?"

I explain how I want to set up a dinner for the two of us in one of the backstage dressing room with all her favorite foods and wine and candles. I describe the dinner she set up for me shortly after we officially started dating. I want this dinner to feel like that. I want Ashley to feel like the most special person on the planet, the only person in the whole world. Patrick takes a few notes, making a couple of phone calls as I continue to lay out my plans for tonight. He even makes a few suggestions, filling me in on Ashley's current tastes.

"Where is she now?"

My face falls, recalling earlier on the stage, "With Bert."

"Still?" Patrick frowns, shaking his head. "She's been trying to get rid of him for a few weeks now."

"They seemed pretty chummy when they left for lunch."

Patrick gives me a weak smile, rolling his eyes, "It's Ashley, she's pretty chummy with everyone."

As I further explain my feelings for Ashley, Patrick continues to relax. He tells me how she's been, what her life is like now. He listens while I ramble on and on, trying to sort out my thoughts. It's kind of terrifying, putting out everything into words. It makes it all feel more real. I'm reminded that this might not work, that Ashley may be too hurt to ever fully let me back in. That nagging feeling that I'm going to forget; that I'm trying to replace seems to soften. I'm not trying to fill the hole Gerard left with Ashley. No one could ever take the place in my heart Gerard will probably always possess. I'm trying to get my best friend back. I'm trying to take away the pain I caused her. I'm told if I ever do anything to hurt her Patrick will personally kill me. I agree that it'd only be fair.

"Have you talked to Matt or Ryan or Andrew?" Patrick questions as we set up candles around the small backstage area.

I fiddle with the little bouquet of flowers I picked up, "I've avoided them. Matt terrifies me. All the guys do. They're so protective. I'm the asshole who walked out on Ashley when she needed me most. I can't imagine they'd have anything nice to say or ever be willing to hear me out."

"Do you blame them?" Patrick arches an eyebrow, hands coming to rest on his hips. "Ashley has had a rough life. They want to keep her safe. You're going to have to talk to them eventually."

Sighing, I shake my head, readjusting and already perfect place setting. I'm trying to focus on one thing at a time. Right now, Ashley has my attention. If she pushes me away, rejecting my efforts at rekindling any kind of relationship with her no one else matters. The fingers claw into my throat, making my lungs scream as I being to think about how horribly wrong this could all go. Ashley's been friendly, kind. Is she doing that because she has no choice? Because we're both here and I can't help but shove my issues down her throat? Is she just biding her time before she can run and never look back? My stomach rolls, the smell of food suddenly too much, the room feeling too small.

A hand on my shoulder halts the tumbling thoughts, dragging me back from the edge, "Ashley is a nice girl, Frank. She doesn't always make the best decisions though. She doesn't like disappointing people. Don't take advantage of that. Don't hold on to her if she's trying to get away."

"What if she doesn't try to get away?"

Deep lines form around Patrick's eyes as he smiles, "Then enjoy the ride. She's a hell of a woman." His fingers press into my chest, getting serious. "And you treat her like a queen. You do anything to make her happy. Show her you're better than you were before. Be her rock, Frank, be that place where she can go when the world gets ugly."

"I was an idiot for ever being anything but that," I affirm.

"Idiot might be too light of a word, but I get it," Patrick claps me on the back, his eyes sweeping over the room. "Ready for me to get her?"

Suddenly unable to form words, I nod. Left in the dimly lit space, I try to not let my mind wander. Whatever happens, at least she'll know I care. She'll at least know I tried. The doorknob jiggles. My heart stops.


	24. Beautiful Stranger

Everyone is sitting in the front of the bus when I get back from lunch, eyes trained on me. I've been here before. Walking into a boardroom full of men in expensive suits, all ready to shove recovery down my throat. I twitch, trying to drive the memory away. This isn't that. These are my friends, people who care about me. People who just want what's best for me. This is probably nothing, a conversation that needs to be had about the album. Yes. This is about the album. Nothing else. No hidden motives. No cruel words. No pushing. 

"Sit," Matt pats the spot on the couch next to him. "How was lunch?"

He sounds too formal, the smile he offers too forced. I wrack my brain for anything I could have done, anything that would cause worry. This tour has gone so smoothly. We've played as one every single night. We wrote a fucking record. A record that could define our whole career. Sure, maybe I've stayed out too late. Maybe I've gotten a little too close to Bert. Maybe I drink a little too much. I've not relapsed though. I've not even thought about it. 

"It was fine."

"Ash," Ryan leans across the aisle, taking my hands in his. I resist the urge to pull away. He's my friend. He wants what's best for me. "Can we talk about Frank?"

Frank. Frank who I left on stage this morning. Frank who I let Bert tear into. Frank who looked utterly dejected as I walked away with a man he detests. Frank who falls asleep next to me almost every night. Frank who whispers quiet apologizes into the darkness when he thinks I'm sleeping. Frank who is destroyed, who is in so much pain it even hurts me. Frank. A man I miss. A man that terrifies me. A broken, arrogant, intensely frustrating man. A man that leaves my cheeks flushed. A man that can make my heart take off like a herd of wild horses with a simple look. Frank. The forbidden fruit that I desperately want to bite back into, but hesitate because I know it might be poison. Frank.

"What about Frank?"

Matt sighs, fingers tangling in his hair, "What's going on with him?"

"What?"

"We've just noticed you've been spending a lot of time with him," Andrew tries, his tone even, eyes soft. "We just want to make sure you're making good decisions."

As Ryan's thumb grazes over the tattoo Frank gave me, I jerk away. That's ours. Our little moment of quiet, of trust, of hope. My toes press into the top of my shoes, biting into the rubber, "I'm making fine decisions. I don't see why this is any of your business."

"Jesus, Ash!" Matt's hand hits against the tabletop, his words coming out as a growl. "He's an asshole! He hurt you! You're acting like none of that happened! He missed Ronnie's funeral! He called you awful things! He wouldn't even answer the phone when you overdosed!"

Red. Everything going an angry, vibrant, pulsing red. The people around me begin to melt into the background, faceless voices, "Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I just forgot? I know what he did, Matt! I know! I've lived with it every day for fucking years!"

"You let him take those pictures. You let him fall asleep next to you. You let him fucking mark your body!"

I shrink back as Matt gets in my face, the arm of the couch digging harshly into my back, "He's hurt. He needs someone."

"Why does it have to be you, Ash? Why are you letting him back in? How could you ever trust him again? After everything?"

There's a knock on the bus door but I hear it through water. My eyes burn, lungs begging me to take in air, limbs so tense they being to tremble. Matt's honey eyes stare e down, the fire inside him licking at the edges.

I see Frank. I feel his touch, hear his deep, raspy laugh. That dimple right by his mouth when he smiles. The way his fingers work against the back of his neck when he's nervous. How his hair curls at the ends when it's getting long. His tongue flicking out over his bottom lip. That stupid smirk. The way he looks at me. The way talking with him feels like pouring out my soul. 

"Because I love him, Matt!" The dam breaks, hot tears trailing down my cheeks. "Because even after all of that I could never _stop_ loving him."

Patrick stumbles onto the bus. He clears his throat, hands shoved deep into his pockets, "Uh, Frank's looking for you."

Nodding, I rub at my face, standing.

"Ashley," Matt protests.

Sighing, I turn to look at my brother, "I don't expect you to get it. He's changed."

"Is he okay?" I ask Patrick as we walk through the venue toward the backstage area.

"Do you really love him, Ashley?" Patrick pries, ignoring my question.

I nod, confident in my answer. I'm not sure I ever really stopped loving Frank. I was pissed and devastated for a long time. He was the mud under my shoes. If I never had to see his face again I would've been content. Yet, that changed. Over time, I healed somewhat. I fixed myself, started to truly love myself. After that, the anger turned into a dull ache. For a long time, I thought it was my heart trying to mend itself.

Then he showed up, right in front of me, shoving himself in my pather every chance he got. I realized the ache wasn't there because I was still healing. It was because I missed him; because never really stop loving someone like Frank. He seeps into your skin, sitting just under the surface. He draws you in, makes you feel wanted and special in a way no one but Frank can.

I was terrified to get close again; petrified that after all this time he really just didn't give a shit. Over tour I found myself seeking him out. I wanted to know what he was doing, who he was talking to, what he was thinking. I sank myself into muddy waters and slowly watched them clear. Frank is still Frank. He's rough around the edges, stumbling over his feelings. He's genuine though, not able to hide what on his mind. He laughs freely and often, enjoying every moment like it's his last. He throws himself into things without ever thinking of the consequences.

Spending time with him also showed me that he's changed. Frank's grown up. He's had to face the repercussions. He's had to sit in his own shit and just stew. Something about the way I catch him glancing over at me, his cheeks dusting a light pink, tells me he's different. He's not the reckless teenager I fell in love with. Frank is a man now, ready to own up to his mistakes and fix them. 

"Yes. I really love him."

Patrick nods, stopping in front of one of the doors that line the backstage halls. He gives me a short hug, kissing the top of my head. Before I can ask what's going on he's disappearing back up the hall. For a few seconds, I stare at the door, unsure if I really want to open it. I'm positive I know what lies beyond. That still scares the shit out of me. Frank's grown up, that doesn't mean I still can't get hurt. Taking a deep breath, I squeeze my eyes shut, fingers curling around the door handle.

Candlelight dances across the walls. A table sits in the middle of the room, draped in a deep blue tablecloth. There's food set up, lining the table in little bowls and take out containers. Gentle music floats through the room, piano dancing with guitars. In the middle of it all stands Frank, his fingers curled around a bouquet of flowers. 

"Hi," he breathes out.

"Hi." I smile back, palms growing sweaty.

Frank clears his throat, pulling himself out of some kind of trance. He holds the flowers out to me, shifting from foot to foot. "These are for you." His eyes sweep over the room, fingers working against the back of his neck. "It's all for you."

"Thank you," tipping forward on my toes, I let my lips press to his cheek. I feel it burn under my touch.

We sit and eat. We talk and drink. Frank fidgets with his silverware, knife clattering to the ground. We laugh, reminiscing on all the ridiculous shit we used to do. We have the hard conversations, the ones we've put off for far too long. He talks about Gerard and the hole in his heart. We talk about addiction. Frank apologizes for not being there when I needed him, for not picking up the phone. My heart feels light. Being around Frank is like breathing, easy and simple...natural. His fingers graze against mine; thumb trailing over the tattoo he gave me, making it ours again. We dance, twirling around each other, our voices mixing together. He holds me while I cry. I hold him, letting his face sink into my shoulder, memorizing how he feels.

"I'm sorry," Frank mumbles hours later, lighting up a cigarette.

"For what?"

"For making you feel the way I feel right now."

Leaning forward, I collect his face in my hands, palm pressing against the soft skin of his cheek. Frank hums into the touch, pushing his face against it, "You shouldn't apologize for making me happy. Are you not happy right now?"

"No, no," his eyes widen. "I'm happy right now. I meant before. Gerard did to me what I did to you. It feels shitty. Like you don't matter. Like you're just there for entertainment. You were never just entertainment to me, Ashley. Never. I will never forgive myself for screwing up so royally."

Snatching his cigarette away, I press it to my lips, needing to feel closer to him. Needing to sink myself into the little divot in the cigarette filter where his lips were moments ago, "I forgive you, Frank. You need to start letting yourself forgive."

"I hurt you," Frank protests, heels kicking against the couch.

Nodding, I raise an eyebrow, "Yes, but - " I continue on quickly as he tries to interject. "- but you've apologized. You've seen what you did, you've felt it. You've grown. Learned. I forgive you. Forgive yourself. For me?"

"I guess," Frank's fingers curl between mine. "For you."

Frank walks me back to the bus, his fingers once again tearing into the flesh of his neck. I wish I could take that away, whatever pain is driving him to the nervous ticks. I'd take it all if it meant I could see that perfect smile light up his face eve one more time. Goosebumps rush down my arms as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, "Ashley?"

I hum a response, lost in his soft honey green eyes.

"Never mind," Frank frowns down at his hands, his fingers twitching.

I curl my hand around his, holding it up to my heart, "I had a good time tonight."

That smile, the gentle blush that creeps over Frank's cheeks. My heart thunders, "So did I." Frank takes in a hitched breath, eyes downcast as he presses his lips to my forehead. "I'll see you in the morning." He gives my hand a squeeze, turning away.

"Frank?"

He turns back to me. My lips find his, fingers tangling in his hair. He snakes his arms around my back, holding me to his chest. In this moment, we are everything. 


	25. Degausser

For the next two days, I don't let Ashley out of my sight. It brings me comfort to have her there, side stage, jumping around to the songs we play. Being able to look over and see her beaming back at me makes being on stage next to Gerard easier. No matter how sweaty I am, Ashley is always there to pull me into a hug, to tell me what a great job I did. Sometimes, if no one is looking, she'll even sneak a kiss on my cheek. I love being able to wrap my arms around her, to feel her heart pounding along with mine. It's familiar and no matter what kind of day I'm having, it calms me, makes me feel safe. We fall into her bunk every night and even if I'm still gross and smelly, she'll let me curl up next to her. I don't want tour to end, not now, not when it feels like it should be just starting. 

"Well, I guess this is goodbye." 

We stand outside the buses, ready to take one final drive on this whirlwind of a tour...the drive home.

I nod, clumsily taking Ashley's hand, holding it between mine, "Guess so."

A thousand words sit on the tip of my tongue, pushing desperately against lips that refuse to open. Once again I nod, watching as Ashley turns to open her bus door. I follow suit, glancing back over at her one final time. We share a glance that says far too little yet far too much. The glance between two cowards, two people desperately in love but too scared to voice it. Two people are far too terrified to ever admit that the hateful words and angry stares mean nothing anymore. Two people who just can't seem to rid themselves of a life they've been trapped in for much too long. Ashley offers a smile and I do too before sealing myself inside the bus. Suddenly, I feel worse than I have in months. This feels too final. Too much like closing a book I only got halfway through. 

For the first time in a long time, I find myself shoves into the corner of the bus couch. The window is thrown open, a cigarette held loosely between my fingers. I imagine Ashley doing the same, full lips pulled into a pout. The world moves past me slowly, morphing into shapes and colors. No one says much, everyone lost in their own heads. The words that need to be spoken sit in the silence, they swirl to life in subtle glances only to be snuffed out by a pathetic sigh, a sad frown, and the pitiful shake of a head. I'm not sure we're going to make it back from this one. 

A blink and I'm standing in front of my apartment building. The trees have started to bloom, the leaves casting tiny shadows against the dirt-streaked sidewalks. I know this is where I belong, that this is home, but it all feels wrong. I'm a stranger in a strange land, left with nothing but a parting wave and the promise of a call with updates. The blue paint on the door is peeling, the little silver number plate rusting around the edges. Just how I left it. A pang of sadness radiates through me as I sink to the kitchen floor.

I expect her to call, but she doesn't. No matter how many times I flip the phone open, my fingers hovering over the green button, I just can't do it. I want her to want to talk to me. I want the phone to jump across the worn kitchen linoleum, her name lighting up the screen. Maybe it was all a dream, some kind of pill-induced euphoria I made up in my head. 

Wandering into the bedroom, I stare down at the rumpled sheets, the comforter kicked down onto the floor. The indent where Gerard used to lay his head is still there, forever burned into the pillow. A few of his shirts sit by the hamper, his belt looped over the bathroom doorknob. Pushing my fingers into my eyes, I let the patterns dance before my vision, enjoying the lightheaded feeling that sinks in. I'm not sure how long I stand there, but my arms begin to scream, feet too heavy in my shoes. The light that filtered in through the front window is gone, shrouding the space in unfamiliar shadows. 

Shaking fingers pick up the edge of the sheet, pressing it to my nose. Cigarettes and spearmint gum. A thousand memories come flooding back. All the love, all the times he would jump in his sleep, only comforted by my touch. It's not just him though. These blankets hold her too. Her fingers working to tuck the sheet under the mattress, the little stain from where she spilled coffee, the lipstick smudges. The way she would drag the blankets off the bed, wrapping them tightly around her shoulder as she got up to get coffee or have a cigarette. This room isn't mine. It's theirs, their fingerprints pressed into the walls and the clothes. The dip in the mattress where they both slept, tucked up into me. 

Damn me and my stupid fear. She should be here. We should be ordering takeout. She should be complaining about how drafty the place is. I should be offering her my flannel. We should be drinking and dancing through the apartment. We should be falling into bed, laughing in between kisses, fingertips dusting over the other's exposed skin. We should be rebuilding our little world. She should be making this place feel like a home. I shouldn't be standing here alone, not knowing where I belong or how to make my limbs move. 

I sleep on the couch, unable to lie next to a ghost, not quite ready to strip the sheets, tearing away all the memories they hold. The cold, plastic leather is uncomfortable against my exposed skin. I miss the way Ashley felt curled up with me, her fingers tracing patterns against my skin. Shutting my eyes, I trail a finger up my arm, humming gently to myself. I want to hear her voice. I want her to be squatting down next to the couch in the morning, a steaming cup of coffee held between her hands. I want to feel the press of Gerard's lips against my temple, to hear his gentle snoring. I want to watch him tear through the apartment, trying to find his other shoe or those one pair of boxers he's emotionally attached to. I don't want to feel alone. I don't want to be finding solace at the bottom of the bottle of some shitty gas station wine.

My fingers hit against the keys of my phone, typing out a text I'll never send to a girl who probably doesn't even care. _I miss you. Please come home._

The coffee pot chimes too loudly. The toast tastes burnt. My cigarette feels too heavy against my bottom lip. The noise from the television is too harsh, too metallic. The chords that spill from my brain out into the silence sound off-key, no harmonies coming gracefully together. My world is tipped sideways, remaining the same, but still too different to bring comfort. I can't get comfortable in my own skin. I don't have the energy to move the furniture around, trying to make it right. It hurts to blink, to breathe, to just sit. 

I stare at the oil painting hanging above the television, imprinting the dark lines into my mind. _Ashley doesn't feel the same way_. Swallow. _Gerard left._ Inhale. _Forgive yourself, for me?_ Twitch. _I love you._ Blink. T _hat fucking girl is more of a man than you'll ever be._ Swallow. You'll never be enough. Screw up. World destroyer. Worthless. Fuck up. A girl like her could never love a guy like me. A guy like him could never be with a guy like me. My fingers rub over the spot where Ashley tattooed me. The little bat with its fangs and blood drips. I feel that spot over and over until the skin is red and puffy and irritated. My fingertips press into the spot, wishing I could draw it into my soul, make her a part of me forever. If I press just hard enough, blunt fingernails dipping into the agitated flesh, I can almost feel her lips against mine, can almost see her eyes crinkle up, almost hear her gentle laugh. Almost. 

Locked in my self-created prison I almost don't hear the soft play of knuckles against the front door. I almost don't hear the voice on the other side. I almost don't get up. Almost.


	26. Take Me As You Please

_I miss you. Please come home._

I'm not sure he meant to send it. I wonder if he's drunk. I wonder if he picked up that little orange bottle and swallowed what was left inside. Frank is dramatic and left completely alone to deal with everything that happened, he might resort to such things. 

He didn't kiss me when I left. I got a pitiful smile, a nod, and then nothing. No hopeful words, no I want to see you again. It feels unfinished, like a song you just can't get right, a chord that hangs in the air for just a second too long, an off-tempo drum beat. 

The gate looms before me, a gaping mouth, happily waiting to swallow me whole. The plane sits on the tarmac, glittering in the early morning sun, ready to carry me home. Something's wrong. I'm going in the wrong direction. My stomach twists in awful knots, legs unable to stay still. I pace back and forth in front of the windows lining the wall, teeth working feverously against the inside of my cheek. This is more than pre-flight nerves. I've flown dozens of times, managed to shake off the fear that used to cling to me when I boarded. This whole situation feels like the end. If I get on that plane, I'm not going to make it back. With each pass by the windows, I hope to rid myself of the sinking feeling in my chest. It lingers, seeping into my bones, making me shiver. I find myself staring down at the little flame now inked into my thumb. My cheeks burn.

A part of me hoped he'd be here; hair all a mess, shoes untied, flannel flying out behind him as he dashed through the airport toward the gate. I wanted him to tell me leaving is the dumbest thing I'd ever do with my life. I was hoping he'd be here to sweep me off my feet and spin me around in circles and press his lips to mine. I wanted to hear him say he loved me and he wants to try again. That isn't going to happen though. Frank isn't going to come flying through the terminal begging me to stay. Things like the boy rushing in at the last minute to confess all his feelings don't happen in real life. I guess I was just hoping that this time would be different, that Frank wouldn't let me just walk away without a fight.

What I'm doing is no different though. I left too. I didn't let him know how I felt. Part of starting over was being open with each other, telling each other the things that needed to be said. Am I being a hypocrite for expecting him to be here? I could just as easily leave all of this, rushing back to him. Maybe that's what Frank was waiting for, for me to really show him that this is what I want.

As the stewardess begins to call boarding zones, I gather my things. This is it. Tour is over. The album is coming out next week. It's supposed to be time to go home. One journey done, another beginning. So why do I feel like this? I've longed for my bed. I've dreamt about the warm California sun and the waves crashing against the sand. Why do my feet stay cemented to the ground? Why am I unable to follow the others as they line up to board?

Honey green eyes swirl in my vision, a giggle knocking out all other sounds. I can't leave. I can't get on that plane and go home. Not now. Not with so much left unsaid. Maybe Frank is sitting at home right now wondering the same things I am. Maybe he really is just waiting for me to start the fighting. After all this time, after everything we've said and done, he's hoping I'll pick him. That text message is Frank's fight. I want to pick him. Even if it isn't easy, even if in the end we decide we're too different and it just won't work. Right now, I want Frank.

"Ash, you coming?" Matt calls over his shoulder, digging around in his pockets for his boarding pass. 

I blink back at him, the words not quite registering.

"Ash?"

"I can't get on that plane," I murmur, already scanning the terminal for the exit signs.

Matt steps out of line, gathering my face in his hands, "It's time to go home, Ashley. We gotta get on the plane."

"No," My voice is steadier now, the conviction in my decision seeping in. I square my jaw, not willing to let my brother talk me out of this. "I can't get on that plane. I can't leave."

My brother's face creases in realization, his lips pulling down into a frown, "Ash."

"No." Twisting away from him, I dash back through the terminal.

I can hear them calling after me, but I don't stop. My feet carry me through the airport and out the sliding front doors. The bag on my shoulder digs into the flesh, biting at it, trying to tug me back. I throw the address at the cab driver, settling into the back seat. I should call him. I should've called last night while I sat on Andrew's couch unable to sleep. Nothing about leaving felt right. The idea made my skin itch, my brain pushing against my skull. We can't leave things how we did. It was unfinished, tension hanging heavy in the fog around us. I need to hear his voice again. I need to sink against his chest as he wraps his arms around me. I need to feel his lips moving against mine, silently telling me that we're okay, that we'll work out. I fought too hard to just leave it like that. 

Frank's street is lined with birch trees. Little green nubs push out against harsh brown bark, trying to usher in warmer weather. I'm not sure how long I stand in front of the blue door. Maybe an hour, probably only a few minutes. My fingers twitch, lifting up to touch the peeling paint only to be shoved deep inside my sweatshirt. For a little, I press my forehead to the wood, letting the number plaque dig into my skin. There's no noise on the other side, no sounds of anyone shuffling around, no beep of the coffee pot.

Maybe he's not home. A little part of me wonders if he's running through the airport terminal, trying to catch me before I leave. Did we pass each other on the drive here? Smiling, I lay my knuckles against the door. Life isn't a movie. He'll be here. This is right. He's who I want. I love him. Nothing in my life has ever fallen into place quite like this has. We were shoved on that tour together for a reason. We were meant to forgive and heal together. I was meant to realize I still loved him. 

My knuckles hit against Frank's apartment door, "Frank?" 

For a few heart-stopping seconds I think he isn't going to answer, that he really isn't home. Then, the lock clicks and my heart jumps into overdrive and I'm certain I'll pass out right here on the rotting doormat. He looks like he hasn't slept. Exhaustion clings to his unshaven face, deep purple blending into honey green. Frank rubs his eyes, eyebrows coming together as he stares at me, "Ashley? I thought you were flying out." 

"I couldn't leave," I answer, allowing him to usher me into the apartment, shutting the door behind me. Half-smoked cigarettes litter the window ledge, coffee cups scattered over the floor. Frank's rich red comforter sits in a heap on the floor by the couch. "It felt wrong. It was another detour and I'm getting tired of taking those. All my roads keep leading me back to you and I didn't want to take the long way this time. I figured maybe we could ride together for a little, see how that is."

His lips are on mine, hungry, his fingertips pressing into my neck, arms holding me to his bare chest. Frank pulls away for a second, long enough to smile down at me, bury his face in my hair, and then he's kissing me again. When he finally pulls away for good, Frank keeps our foreheads connected, his palms pressed into my cheeks. Somewhere between the door and couch we're now on, I've lost my luggage, the weight off my shoulder.

"I'd like that," Frank voices, still holding me to him. "I'd love to drive with you, see where we end up, but Ashley - "

I hum a response, fingers trailing over the tattoos that litter his skin, trying to burn them into my memory.

" - I get to drive," Frank grins down at me, chuckling lightly as his lips press to the tip of my nose. "Your driving scares the shit out of me."

I give him a playful shove, giggling back as I twine our fingers together, "I love you, Frank Iero." 

"I love you too, Ashley Benson."

Frank's lips once again press to mine, soft and sweet, and so full of love it makes my heart ache. Ache in that good way. In a way that lets me know every fight, every angry glance, every night spent wishing he was there was worth it. In a way that tells me he's never going to walk out again. In a way that lets me know I can trust him because he trusts me. He tastes like nicotine and caffeine. He smells like Irish Spring and coffee and old books. He feels like home. 

**Author's Note:**

> xo FrankiesLilKilljoy  
> ~Keep Running~


End file.
